THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


a^-^ 

V 


KINNIKINIC 

A    BOOK   OF  WESTERN  VERSE 

BY 
CLARA  TREADWAY  WEIR 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
HAROLD  SICHEL 


NEW    YORK 

IVAN  SOMERVILLE  &  CO. 
1907 


COPYRIGHT    1907 
BY  IVAN  SOMERVILLE  &  Co. 


THE  VILLAGE  PRESS 


PS 


k 


/  dedicate  this  book  to  one 
Who  represents  to  me^ 

In  all  its  varied  meaning^ 
Just  what  a  man  should  be. 

TO 

MY   HUSBAND 
THOMAS   WEIR 


CONTENTS 

Kinnikinic              .              .  .  .13 

Barbara     .              .              .  .  .15 

A  Pantomime         .              .  .  .19 

Marigolds                .              .  .  .22 

A  Valentine            .               .  .  •        *4 

The  Difference      .               .  .  25 

The  Blue  Danube  Waltz   .  .  .27 

The  Circus  Parade               .  .  .29 

The  Night  Before  Christmas  .  .31 

A  Love  Song         .              .  .  -35 

The  Undertone      .               .  .  .36 

Our  Emblem          .              .  .  -37 

With  Little  Socks  to  a  Friend  .  38 

The  Way               .              .  .  .40 

Uncut  Leaves        .               .  .  .42 

Good  Night            .               .  .  .44 

Beware                    .               .  .  .46 

A  Picture  of  the  Venetian  Sea  .  .47 

Writted  to  Mrs.  W.  R.  W.  .  .        48 

In  Memory  of  Helen  Chain  .  .        49 

I  am  the  Way        .              .  .  .51 

A  Birthday  Wish   .               .  .  .52 

To  My  Friend       .              .  .  -53 

White  Clover        .               .  .  .54 

The  Reason  Why                .  .  .56 

The  Twilight  Hour             .  .  .58 


The  Mill  at  Rest  .  .  .  .60 

He  Knoweth  Best  .  .  .61 

Easter  Lilies           .  .  .  .62 

Violets                     .  .  .  .64 

A  Clear  Case          .  .  .  .65 

Old  Love  Letters  .  .  .67 

Solicitude                 .  .  .  .68 

To  My  Guest        .  .  .  .69 

Christmas  Carol     .  .  .  .70 

Thanksgiving         .  .  ,  .72 

My  Prayer              .  .  -73 

The  Old  and  the  New        .  .  .74 

Colorado                 .  .  .  .76 

In  a  Bucket            .  .  .  78 

The  Song  of  Silver  .  .  .81 

Charity                   .  .  .  .82 

The  Deserted  Claim  .  .  -83 

Prosperity               .  .  .  .85 

In  His  Name         .  .  .  .88 

The  Robins           .  .  .  .91 

Camping  Out         .  .  .  .92 

Compensation        .  .  .  .95 

Ultima  Thule         .  .  .  .97 

At  Tomichi            .  .  .  .99 

Some  One's  Servant  Girl    .  .  .100 

Absence                   .  .  .  .102 

When  I  Mean  to  Marry     .  .  .103 

Never  Mind  104. 


My  Autograph  .  .  .  .106 

There's  a  Way  .  .  .  .107 

Water  Lilies  .  .  .  .108 

The  Sunny  Side  .  .  .  .109 

Fruition  Day  .  .  .  .no 

Homely  Cheer  .  .  .  .112 

Sunshine  .  .  .  .114 

The  Fireman  .  .  .  .115 

Trifles  .  .  .  1 1 7 

Home  118 


KINNIKINIC 


BARBARA/ 


KINNIKINIC 

BEAR    BERRY 

IT  grows  not  on  the  mountain  peaks, 
Where  snows  eternal  shine  ; 
It  springs  not  in  the  valley — 
This  ever-living  vine; 
But  just  midway  it  has  its  birth, 
And  closely  clings  to  mother  earth. 

It  spreads  its  gray,  green  mantle 
O'er  the  middle  mountain  waste  ; 

And  makes  cheerful  with  its  presence, 
Full  many  a  dreary  place. 

It  thrives  on  Nature's  scant  supply 
And  nothing  can  its  touch  defy. 

Storms  have  no  power,  beneath  dull  skies 

Its  scarlet  berries  shine ; 
Frost  touches,  but  it  injures  not 

This  hardy  Western  vine ; 
And  steadfastly  it  gleams  and  glows 

Beneath  the  drifts  of  winter's  snows. 


The  Indians  seek  its  leaves  to  smoke 

Within  their  pipes  of  peace, 
And  from  their  tepees  issues  forth 

Its  breath  on  ministries, 
They  gather  it  from  off  the  sod 

As  incense  to  their  unknown  God. 

Go  forth,  my  little  book,  and  take 

Ensample  from  the  vine  ; 
And  though  thou  can'st  not  on  the  heights 

Of  heaven-born  genius  shine, 
Although  wings  are  denied  to  thee, 

Fall  not  below  my  hopes  of  thee. 

Be  thou  content  midway  to  dwell 

Upon  the  mountains  high  ; 
Give  freely  what  thou  hast  to  give 

To  weary  passers-by ; 
Send  ever  forth  a  kindly  ray 

To  cheer,  therewith,  some  cloudy  day. 

And  thus  shalt  thou  requite  to  me 

All  that  I  ask  or  hope ; 
Thy  mission  thus  shall  be  fulfilled 

Upon  the  Western  slope ; 
And  by  thy  side  full  close  entwine 

Kinnikinic,  thv  sister  vine. 


Gown  after  gown  of  that  long  treasure  store 
Was  paraded  the  length  of  the  old  attic  floor. 


BARBARA 

SUCH  a  sweet  girl  was  Barbara,  merry  and  free 

And  loving  and  winsome  at  eighteen  was  she; 

But  the  one  cloud  that  hung  o'er  her  young  life,  alas! 

Was  the  saintly  perfection  of  Grandmother  Bass; 

Her  mother  and  aunts  had  in  council  most  wise 

Considered  her  figure,  her  color,  and  size, 

And  concluded,  although  in  a  crowd  she  might  pass, 

Still  she  was  not  at  all  like  her  Grandmother  Bass. 

"  My  dear,"  sighed  her  mother,  "  I  sorrow  to  see 
That  you  have  in  your  nature  so  much  levity; 
Your  dignity's  lacking — it  doesn't  seem  right 
For  a  girl  to  be  laughing  from  morning  till  night, 
And  your  flirting,  and  dancing,  and  lovers,"  she  said, 
"  Dear  Barbara,  drive  me  quite  out  of  my  head. 
I  wish,  I  do  wish,  and  I  can't  let  it  pass, 
That  you  were  just  a  little  like  Grandmother  Bass." 

Poor  Barbara!  All  of  her  life  was  so  new, 

Every  flower  was  glistening  with  sunshine  and  dew, 

The  whole  world  ran  over  with  perfume  and  light, 

Not  a  song-bird  of  spring  was  more  filled  with  delight, 

And  to  laugh  and  to  sing  was  her  nature,  alas! 

Though  such  things  were  not  told  of  her  Gramdmother  Bass. 

Well,  her  small  social  world  on  one  bright  autumn  day 

Was  thrown  into  commotion,  and  this  was  the  way. 

15 


BARBARA 

Invitations  were  out  for  a  fancy  dress  fair, 

And  the  popular  question  was,  "What  shall  you  wear?" 

Now  up  in  the  attic,  sweet  Barbara  knew 

There  was  clothing,  that  had  not  been  open  to  view 

For  the  last  sixty  years,  and  she  thought  in  despair 

How  fine  it  would  be  if  she  only  could  wear 

Some  costume,  there  carefully  treasured  and  hid 

In  the  old  packing-box,  with  the  camphor  wood  lid. 

But  what  would  mother  say?  She  feared  that  she  knew; 

Yet  she  still  persevered  with  her  object  in  view. 

A  reluctant  permission  at  last  was  obtained 

And  she  flew  to  her  work,  with  this  victory  gained. 

Quickly  then  were  upturned  from  their  long  resting-places 

Those  quaintly  made  garments  of  brocade  and  laces 

That  diffused  an  aroma,  peculiar  and  old 

From  the  roses  and  lavender  pressed  in  each  fold. 

She  clad  her  young  figure,  so  full  yet  so  slight, 

In  one  dress  then  another  in  girlish  delight, 

And  gown  after  gown  of  that  long  treasured  store 

Was  paraded  the  length  of  the  old  attic  floor; 

But  the  one  that  at  last  found  most  grace  in  her  sight 

Was  of  soft  silken  tissue,  striped  scarlet  and  white. 

There  were  only  four  breadths  in  the  skirt,  I  believe, 

For  the  fulness  was  all  in  the  mutton-leg  sleeve. 

The  corsage  was  short  and  exceedingly  low, 

As  the  fashion  demanded  a  long  time  ago, 

And  was  trimmed  in  profusion  with  rich,  dainty  lace; 

How  it  fitted  her  figure  and  suited  her  face! 

There  were  white  satin  slippers,  with  high  heels  of  red, 

And  a  quaint  cap  of  lace  to  be  worn  on  the  head, 

And  a  bag  for  the  arm, — it  was  once  called  a  pocket — 

Of  course  she  peeped  in  it  the  moment  she  got  it! 

16 


This  evening,  surrounded  by  simpering  gallants." 


BARBARA 

What  is  this  ?  An  old  letter — why  yes,  that  is  pat — 

Folded  up  in  the  shape  of  a  loyal  cocked  hat, 

And  addressed,  in  the  primmest  of  writing  e'er  seen, 

To  her  grandmother's  maiden  name,  Barbara  Dean. 

Should  she  read  it?  She  held  with  a  tremulous  hold 

This  strange  looking  letter,  so  yellow  and  old, 

Whose  owner  had  many  long  years  been  at  rest — 

If  she  stood  here  just  now,  would  she  be  much  distressed 

At  the  thought  of  her  granddaughter's  daring  to  wear 

Her  respectable  robe,  to  a  fancy  dress  fair? 

And  a  vision,  that  well  by  description  she  knew, 
Of  her  stern,  faultless  grandmother,  rose  to  her  view. 
With  a  shiver  of  dread  and  her  heart  beating  fast, 
She  unfolded  and  read  that  small  note  from  the  past. 
'Twas  a  love  letter,  written  in  jealous  despair, 
And  a  picture  was  drawn  of  her  grandmother  there 
That  was  not  half  so  saintly  as  those  she  had  known, 
For  it  surely  depi&ed  some  faults  like  her  own. 

Thus  it  ran:  "Mistress  Barbara,  making  so  bold 

By  the  love  that  I  bear  you — your  promise  I  hold — 

I  would  mention  some  things  that  unseemly  appear, 

Though  I  risk  your  displeasure,  dear  lady,  I  fear. 

This  evening,  surrounded  by  simpering  gallants, 

I  have  failed  to  secure  your  fair  hand  for  one  dance; 

While  the  nosegay  you  carry,  the  songs  you  have  sung, 

I  believe  are  in  honor  of  Philip  De  Young. 

Your  caprice  and  your  coquetry  seem  indiscreet 

To  the  man  who  has  laid  his  true  heart  at  your  feet; 

I  am  not  of  a  jealous  or  censuring  mind, 

But  your  conduct  to-night  I  deem  very  unkind. 

Show  repentance,  I  pray,  e'er  the  evening  doth  pass, 

To  your  unhappy  lover — John  Benjamin  Bass." 


BARBARA 

Had  the  heavens  come  down?  Was  she  fully  awake? 

It  seemed  that  there  must  be  some  dreadful  mistake; 

For  the  saint  who  had  beamed  o'er  her  wayward  young  life 

As  a  paragon  mother,  a  model,  true  wife, 

By  the  note  that  she  held,  'twas  conclusively  shown, 

Had  possessed  in  her  youth  many  faults  like  her  own. 

That  night  at  the  fair,  in  her  old  fashioned  gown, 

Dear  Barbara  turned  half  the  heads  in  the  town; 

But  with  womanly  sweetness  she  afterwards  read 

The  letter  she  held  to  her  own  lover  Fred, 

And  she  said,  "If  you'll  let  my  own  shortcomings  pass, 

Who  knows? — I  may  yet  grow  like  Grandmother  Bass." 

But  the  tongues  of  her  household  were  stayed,  sure  and  fast, 

And  the  ghost  of  her  grandmother  rested  at  last; 

Yet  she  thought  every  time  that  she  looked  in  the  glass 

Of  her  chances  of  growing  like  Grandmother  Bass. 

Oh,  the  stream  at  its  fountain  must  babble  and  sing, 
Reflecting  the  beauty  of  blossoming  spring — 
Will  gurgle  and  laugh,  all  untrammelled  and  free 
Ere  it  swells  to  a  river  and  sweeps  to  the  sea. 


18 


"  On  which  a  third  hand  came  to  place 
A  slender  diamond  ring." 


A  PANTOMIME 

THE  streets  were  filled  with  passers-by, 

The  summer  sun  sank  down 
With  slanting  beam  and  mellow  ray, 

Behind  the  busy  town; 
Across  the  street  from  where  I  sat, 

A  window,  open  wide, 
Was  partly  draped  by  curtains 

Sweeping  back  on  either  side; 

And  thus  the  window  sill  appeared 

All  broad  and  white  between, 
And  resting  kindly  on  its  edge 

A  pair  of  hands  was  seen; 
A  pair  of  quite  uneven  hands 

If  balanced  in  a  scale, 
For  one  was  very  muscular, 

The  other  very  frail. 

But,  judging  by  the  sequel, 

I  concluded  that,  of  course, 
The  smaller  of  the  hands  I  saw 

Had  most  magnetic  force; 
Because  the  large  and  sunburned  one 

Had  such  an  easy  way 
Of  ever  moving  near  it, 

As  it  on  the  window  lay. 


A  PANTOMIME 

They  touched — of  course  it  was  by  chance, 

And  done  with  easy  grace; 
The  little  hand  slid  coyly  back 

And  hid  beneath  the  lace; 
Then  peeping  out,  as  though  to  say 

That  must  not  happen  more, 
It  looked  just  twice  as  tempting 

As  it  had  done  before. 

So,  after  much  of  skirmishing, 

Advancing,  and  retreat, 
The  two  in  some  peculiar  way 

Again  had  chanced  to  meet, 
This  time  with  easy  confidence 

The  brown  hand  held  the  white, 
And  clasping  it  about  so  close 

It  hid  it  from  my  sight, 

Except  one  finger,  which  appeared 

All  fair  and  tapering, 
On  which  a  third  hand  came  to  place 

A  slender  diamond  ring. 
The  sun  had  long  since  hidden 

Behind  the  western  trees; 
The  curtains  o'er  the  two  clasped  hands 

Moved  idly  in  the  breeze. 

I  had  seen  the  old,  old  story  told 

In  many  and  many  a  way: 
By  eyes,  to  eyes  that  spoke  again, 

And  in  Shakspearian  play; 


20 


A   PANTOMIME 

But  never  yet  had  I  beheld 

A  tableau  half  as  fine 
As  this,  enacted  o'er  the  way 

In  living  pantomime. 

God  bless  you,  hands!  Hold  fast  and  true 

Through  all  the  coming  years, 
Clasping  in  love  and  sympathy 

Through  all  your  smiles  and  tears; 
And  when  you  ford  the  river 

Running  cold  and  dark  and  still, 
Clasp  you  each  other  just  as  close 

As  now  upon  the  sill. 


21 


MARIGOLDS 

TRANSFIXED  by  some  familiar  glow, 

Upon  the  pavement's  crowded  space 
I  pause,  with  lingering  foot  and  slow, 

As  though  I  saw  a  well-known  face: 
A  blending  of  deep,  rich  maroon, 

Orange  and  yellow,  fold  on  fold, 
Amid  the  florist's  window  blooms 

A  mass  of  velvet  marigold. 

I  mind  me,  when  a  child,  it  grew 

Within  my  mother's  garden  plot, 
And  all  the  long,  bright  summer  through 

It  throve,  although  I  loved  it  not; 
But  now,  the  memories  it  brings 

Of  those  dear  hands,  that  gave  it  care, 
A  host  of  sweet  forgotten  things 

Cluster  about  and  make  it  fair. 

The  dainty  Boston  beauty  wreathed 

Her  drooping  sprays  beside  the  wall, 
And  double  damask  roses  breathed 

Delicious  fragrance  over  all, 
And  southern  wood,  and  fair  sweet  peas 

Were  there  within  her  garden  fold, 
But  still  she  treasured  more  than  these 

The  dear,  old-fashioned  marigold. 


22 


MARIGOLDS 

How  often  at  the  evening  time, 

Having  transgressed  the  well-known  rule, 
And  pale,  faint  stars  began  to  shine 

Ere  I  came  loitering  home  from  school, 
That  heavy,  pungent  odor  bore 

A  deep  foreboding  to  my  soul, 
The  stern  reproof  which  was  in  store 

Was  whispered  by  the  marigold. 

Ah  mother  dear,  if  I  could  come, 

Confessing  failings,  great  and  small, 
And  find  you  waiting  me  at  home 

When  evening  shades  begin  to  fall, 
How  would  I  greet  with  heart  elate 

And  joy  and  tenderness  untold, 
That  which  now  speaks  of  heaven's  gate — 

Your  life-long  friend — the  marigold! 


A  VALENTINE 

ON  this  day  in  all  its  fleetness 
Send  I  thee,  in  its  completeness, 
Love;  which  is  life's  truest  wine: 
Treasure  it,  dear  Valentine. 

For  the  day  with  joy  or  sorrow 
Giveth  place  unto  tomorrow: 
Cling  to  love,  while  it  is  thine: 
It  shall  bless  thee,  Valentine. 

If  our  hearts  be  wed  together, 
Earth  can  hold  no  stormy  weather; 
Sheltered  by  this  love  divine 

Heaven  is  ours,  dear  Valentine. 

Give  some  sign  or  send  a  token, 
If  the  words  my  heart  has  spoken, 
Find  an  answering  chord  in  thine: 
Send  and  bless  your  Valentine. 


24 


THE  DIFFERENCE 

THEY  stood  at  the  pasture  bars, 

While  the  full  moon  o'er  the  sea 
Of  billowy  grass  and  waving  grain 

Rose  bright  and  solemnly ; 
And  the  crickets  at  their  feet 

Sang  soft  their  merry  strain, 
And  he  said, "The  dew  is  falling,  sweet, 

And  I  must  not  remain. 

"But  the  time  is  drawing  near 

When  I'll  never  need  to  go; 

Are  you  happy  in  the  thought,  dear, 

That  God  has  willed  it  so?" 
And  the  dew  that  kissed  the  rose 

And  the  pansies  sweet  and  dim, 
Could  never  shine  so  softly  bright 

As  the  eyes  that  answered  him. 

That  hour  at  the  farm-house  door, 

With  a  kerchief  o'er  his  head, 
Impatiently  the  good  man  stood 

While  to  his  wife  he  said: 
"The  dew  is  falling  heavily, 

And  Margery  still  is  out; 
Young  people  nowadays  don't  seem 

To  know  what  they're  about." 


THE   DIFFERENCE 

"Reuben,"  a  soft  voice  whispered 
While  a  hand  stole  through  his  arm, 
"You  do  not  think  the  same  to-night 

You  did  at  father's  farm; 
Can't  you  remember,  husband, 

When  we  stayed  out  just  so?" 
But  he  drew  the  kerchief  o'er  his  head, 

And  stoutly  answered,  "No." 

"Don't  you  remember,  Reuben, 

When  the  moon  hung  full  and  low, 
How  long  it  took  to  say  good-night?" 

And  still  he  answered  "No!" 
"Perhaps  I  do,"  he  said  at  last, 

"  But,  Roxy,  it  is  strange 
How,  after  years  and  years  go  by 

People's  ideas  change." 

"Ah,  true  indeed!"  she  murmured, 

As  she  smoothed  her  silver  hair, 
And  a  tear  stole  softly  down  the  cheek 

Faded  with  time  and  care. 
"Now,  Roxy,  little  woman 

Pray  do  not  take  offence; 
The  love  is  better,  stronger  far, 

That  comes  with  common  sense." 


26 


THE  BLUE  DANUBE  WALTZ 

I  CANNOT  hear  the  Danube  played 

Without  a  little  sigh 
Of  happiness  and  thankfulness 

For  pleasures  long  gone  by; 
And  memories  come  trooping 

Like  a  cloud  of  butterflies, 
And  with  their  bright,  ethereal  wings 

They  fill  the  earth  and  skies. 

Oh,  polished  floors  and  brilliant  lights, 

And  flowers  so  deadly  sweet! 
You  floated  on  a  cloud  of  bliss 

Unconscious  of  your  feet, 
Although  your  feet  were  neatly  clad 

In  just  one  dainty  hue — 
Stockings  and  slippers  quite  complete 

In  yellow,  pink  or  blue; 

Your  gown  of  organdie  or  tulle 

Bound  at  your  girlish  waist 
With  yards  and  yards  of  ribbon  sash 

Twined  with  cascaded  lace; 
And  then  the  curls,  the  wealth  of  curls 

So  fluffy  and  so  bright, 
One  could  not  think  they  had  been  rolled 

On  lead  or  cloth  at  night, 


27 


THE   BLUE   DANUBE   WALTZ 

Unless  one's  self  had  been  the  one 

To  find  there  was  no  fun 
In  going  to  sleep  a  dozen  times 

Before  you  got  them  done. 
And  then  the  waltz,  the  German  waltz, 

(There  was  no  two-step  then) 
Was  called  reverse,  you  circled  on 

Then  circled  back  again. 

We  danced  with  '  Daisey,'  4Newt'  and  'Ed' 

Our  programs  always  filled; 
We  never  sat  a  single  dance, 

We  could  not  if  we  willed ! 
Ah,  where  are  all  the  dear  old  chums 

The  fair  girls  and  their  beaux? 
I  fear  at  dances  nowadays 

They  sit  along  in  rows 

And  watch  their  children  two-step, 

As  they  circle  all  about; 
It  is  too  much  work  to  dance,  when  you 

Are  middle-aged  and  stout! 
And  some  who  were  the  gayest, 

And  some  who  were  the  best, 
Have  laid  aside  life's  joys  and  cares 

And  entered  into  rest. 

And  still,  thou  dear  Blue  Danube  waltz, 

Thy  praises  shall  be  sung, 
For  making  pleasure  more  complete 

When  life  and  joys  were  young. 


28 


THE  CIRCUS  PARADE 

ROUND,  eager  eyes,  blue,  black  and  gray, 

All  anxiously  await; 
The  circus  soon  will  pass  this  way, 

The  children  are  elate. 
One  small  girl,  with  her  stocking  down, 

Blue-eyed  and  motherly, 
Leads  by  a  toddling  little  one, 

And  pipes  up  cheerily: 

"  Oh,  there,  it's  coming!  Don't  you  hear 

The  bugle  and  the  drum  ? 
In  seems  we've  waited  here  a  year; 

Come,  baby,  can't  you  run? 
Keep  on  your  bonnet;  you'll  get  tanned. 

Say,  Tom,  don't  get  ahead ! 
Take  hold  of  baby's  other  hand; 

You  know  what  mamma  said. 

"Just  hear  the  music!  There  they  come, 

All  trimmed  with  red  and  gold; 
Let's  count  the  cages,  one  by  one  ; 

What  do  you  think  they  hold? 
Yes;  very  likely,  bears  and  things; 

Just  like  the  pictures  there, 
And  birds  with  pretty  tails  and  wings ; 

Look,  brother!  I  declare! 


29 


THE   CIRCUS  PARADE 

"There  comes  the  elephant!  Oh,  dear, 

How  large  he  is,  and  stout! 
Be  careful,  Tom;  don't  go  too  near, 

Do  mind  what  you're  about! 
And  that's  the  music  wagon,  rolled 

So  lovely;  look  and  see; 
It's  really  made  of  solid  gold, 

As  splendid  as  can  be. 

"That  lady  looks  just  like  a  queen, 

All  dressed  in  gold  and  blue. 
(When  I'm  a  woman  grown,  I  mean 

To  join  a  circus,  too.) 
Yes,  that's  a  lion;  see  him  turn 

His  head  from  side  to  side; 
I  wonder  if  he  had  to  learn 

To  sit  up  there  and  ride. 

"If  he  should  jump  this  way  and  come, 

Whatever  should  I  do? 
Baby's  so  fat  I  couldn't  run, 

He'd  have  to  eat  us  two. 
Hush,  don't  you  cry,  now  baby  dear, 

You  silly  little  thing! 
He  couldn't  get  you;  don't  you  see 

He's  fastened  with  a  string? 

"Here  come  the  clowns;  what  funny  men! 

These  horses  are  the  last. 
Ma  said  we  couldn't  follow  them, 

And  now  they're  all  gone  past. 
Where's  Tom,  my  brother, Tommy  Brown? 

He's  gone  and  run  away. 
I  wish  a  circus  came  to  town 

And  passed  here  every  day  !" 

3° 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE 
CHRISTMAS 

THERE'S  a  mist  of  snow  in  the  air, 
And  the  crash  of  sleigh-bells  sweet, 
And  bright  eyes  sparkle  and  people  smile, 
As  the  crowds  press  by  in  the  street; 
There  is  expectation  everywhere, 
And  the  Christmas  spirit  is  in  the  air. 

There  are  parcels  of  every  size 

And  known  and  unknown  shape, 

Stuffed  into  pockets  from  prying  eyes, 

Held  beneath  ulster  and  cape. 

The  rich  and  the  poor  on  one  level  are  met, 

For  the  holiday  no  one  on  earth  can  forget. 

Three  men  at  a  corner  stood 

In  the  brilliant  glare  of  the  street, 

Rough  and  noisy,  in  evil  mood; 

They  hear  a  small  voice  sweet, 

"Please,  do  you  know  Mr.  Santa  Claus? 

I  wanted  to  find  him  because — because — 


31 


THE    NIGHT   BEFORE   CHRISTMAS 

"My  papa  has  gone  to  Heaven, 
And  mamma  is  sick  in  bed. 
My  sister  says  there's  no  Santa  Glaus, 
But  I  don't  mind  what  she  said, 
For  papa  told  me — oh,  long  ago — 
And  surely  my  papa  ought  to  know." 

And  there  in  the  sleet  and  snow 

Stood  a  boy  of  three  or  over, 

No  wrap  or  coat  the  baby  form 

And  the  golden  head  to  cover; 

And  the  pleading  eyes  in  their  swimming 

tears 
Proclaimed  the  conflict  of  hopes  and  fears. 

"We  have  moved  to  another  place, 
Where  the  alley  is  dark,  you  see; 
So  Santa  Claus  never  might  find  us  out 
With  no  one  to  tell  him  but  me, 
And  I  am  so  little  and  not  much  old, 
So  wet  and  hungry,  and  oh,  so  cold!" 

The  three  rough  men  looked  down 

As  the  sweet  voice  made  a  pause, 

Said  one  in  rather  a  husky  voice: 

"I  used  to  know  Santa  Claus; 

I'll  tell  him  tonight,  if  I  see  him  come, 

To  bring  some  things  to  you,  little  one." 


THE   NIGHT   BEFORE   CHRISTMAS 

And  he  takes  the  baby  up, 

And  he  thinks  of  his  own  at  home, 

With  more  of  the  father's  love  at  heart 

Than  he  ever  before  has  known; 

And  he  says:  "Now  what  would  you  have 

him  bring, 
If  you  could  ask  him  for  anything?" 

There's  a  joyful,  trusting  smile 

And  a  gleam  in  the  eyes  of  blue: 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  there's  a  Santa  Claus, 

And  you  know  him  for  truly,  true. 

I  felt  so  bad  and  it  hurted  me 

To  have  Bess  say  that  he  wasn't  he. 

"I  want  medicine  for  mamma, 

And  a  new  warm  dress  for  Bess, 

And  anything  he  may  leave  for  me, 

A  candy-stick,  I  guess. 

He  must  lay  it  across  the  stocking,  so 

That  it  can't  fall  out  of  the  hole  in  the  toe." 

Then  the  drowsy  head  droops  down 
On  its  new-found  resting  place, 
And  the  golden  hair,  like  an  aureole, 
Surrounds  the  sweet,  small  face; 
And  the  heart  of  the  man  who  holds 

him  springs 
Out  of  himself  toward  better  things. 


33 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  CHRISTMAS 

And  they  carry  the  baby  home 

And  see  in  that  wretched  place 

The  wish  of  the  little  one  fulfilled 

Ere  the  dawn  of  the  day  of  grace; 

And  brightly  the  Christmas  sunshine  shone 

With  a  new  surprise  in  that  humble  home. 

Ah,  beautiful,  childish  faith, 

Believe  what  is  pure  and  good! 

And  who  would  sweep  that  illusion  off 

From  the  soul  of  your  babyhood  ? 

You  will  feel  Christ's  birthday  more  sweet 

because 
Of  the  services  here  of  his  Santa  Claus. 


34 


A  LOVE  SONG 

THERE'S  a  band  of  blue  ribbon,  my  darling, 

Which  runs  through  the  night  and  the  day, 
Slipping  quietly  into  the  meshes  of  thought, 

Whatever  the  words  I  may  say. 
Such  a  bonny  bright  band  of  blue  ribbon, 

All  sunshine  and  rain  it  gleams  through! 
It  was  sent  to  my  heart  by  the  Father  of  love — 

'Tis  the  thought  which  I  have,  dear,  of  you. 


35 


THE  UNDERTONE 

WE  weep  when  we  see  distress, 

We  grieve  when  we  know  of  wrong, 
And  give  our  strength  with  willingness 

To  help  the  weak  along; 
Yet,  breaking  through  our  sympathy, 

Comes  some  happy,  glad  heart  song, 
Which,  like  a  fountain  of  water  clear, 

Can  never  be  hidden  long. 

We  part  with  the  friends  we  love, 

We  fail  in  our  highest  aim, 
And  feel  that  we  never  can  rise  above 

Our  grief,  and  sorrow,  and  pain; 
Yet,  breaking  through  the  serious  mood 

Comes  the  glad,  clear  heart  refrain, 
Surprising  us  with  its  sudden  light, 

Like  sunshine  after  rain. 

From  its  source  on  the  mountain  top, 

'Tis  the  course  of  the  stream  to  run 
Through  many  a  lonely,  shady  spot, 

Then  out  into  the  sun, 
Dimpling  and  laughing  joyously 

As  it  hastens  on,  and  on; 
And  forever  glad  of  the  sunshine  bright, 

Till  the  sea  at  last  is  won. 


OUR  EMBLEM 

WHAT    IT    MEANS    TO    US 

Toast  given  at  Spirit  of  Liberty  Chapter  of 
D.  A;  R.  at  Salt  Lake  City,  February  22,  1907 

OUR  emblem  is  a  golden  wheel, 

Banded  with  deepest  blue; 
Each  shining  spoke  tipped  with  a  star, 

The  distaff  showing  through. 
The  only  jewel  in  the  world 

That  money  cannot  buy 
Without  such  proof  of  ancestry 

As  no  one  can  deny. 

It  glows  on  many  a  bosom 

In  silken  garments  dressed, 
Of  many  a  proud-faced  daughter, 

More  favored  than  the  rest. 
They  gladly  do  it  honor, 

And  give  it  place  to  shine 
In  all  its  blue,  gold  beauty 

And  simple,  quaint  design. 

It  shines  on  many  a  bosom 

Of  daughters,  who,  each  day 
Must  toil  and  strive  with  hand  and  brain, 

Upon  life's  weary  way. 
Untold  the  pride  and  pleasure 

And  honor  which  they  feel, 
In  wearing  that  which  levels  all — 

The  distaff  and  the  wheel. 


37 


OUR   EMBLEM 

That  emblem  tells  a  story 

Each  one  can  understand: 
"This  woman  has  descended, 

From  a  hero  of  our  land, 
From  one  of  those  who  fought  and  bled, 

And  died,  perchance,  that  we 
Should  reap  of  his  great  sacrifice 

A  Nation's  liberty." 

It  tells  of  Washington  and  those 

Whom  he  inspired  on  earth; 
Of  how  those  patriots  fought  and  died, 

To  give  our  land  its  birth; 
Starving,  ill-clad,  they  struggled, 

Upon  the  land  and  sea, 
The  god  of  battle  granted  them 

Triumphant  victory. 

And  now  the  flag  we  love  so  well 

In  glorious  beauty  waves 
Over  the  land  which  holds  and  guards 

So  many  patriot  graves. 
Their  daughters  wear  this  emblem 

And  with  steadfast  faith  they  pray 
That  for  our  Nation's  honor 

We  be  brave  and  true,  as  they. 


WITH  LITTLE  SOCKS  TO 
A  FRIEND 

IF  any  little  stranger 

Should,  on  some  future  day, 
Come  to  you  unexpectedly 

And  have  a  mind  to  stay; 
Coming  so  weak  and  helpless, 

With  small  feet  pink  and  bare, 
You'd  need  some  little,  soft,  wee  sock 

And  so  I  send  a  pair. 


THE  WAY 

HE  said:  "I  can  drink,  in  a  social  way, 
With  other  friends  of  mine, 

Then  stop,  whenever  the  word  I  say, 
Yes,  stop  sir,  every  time! 

I  surely  would  never  take  a  drop 

If  I  did  not  know  just  the  time  to  stop. 

"I  take  a  glass  of  it,  now  and  then, 
It  steadies  my  nerves,  'tis  true; 

One  scarcely  can  be  a  man  among  men 
And  not  do  as  others  do. 

And  I  should  despise  myself,  I  think, 

If  I  knew  that  I  did  not  dare  to  drink." 

So  not  a  friend  could  stay  the  speed 
With  which  he  pursued  his  way, 

That  led,  as  other  roads  must  lead, 
To  its  end,  in  the  usual  way. 

He  lived,  to  liquor  a  helpless  slave, 

And  he  fills  to-day  a  drunkard's  grave. 


40 


THE  WAY 

This  stopping  at  will,  is  an  old,  old  tune, 

No  easier  to  pursue 
Than  to  stop  the  new,  young,  slender  moon 

From  coming  full  when  due; 
Or  a  loosened  car  on  a  sharp  incline, 
Or  a  bucket,  free  in  the  shaft  of  a  mine. 

He  fills  a  drunkard's  grave  to-day, 

And  it's  only  a  single  one 
Of  the  million  graves  that  are  yawning  wide, 

For  those  who  will  surely  come. 
Whose  footsteps  are  pointing  to  this  spot? 
They  are  those  "who  can  stop  when  they  wish 
to  stop." 


UNCUT  LEAVES 

OH,  a  wonderful  book  is  the  book  of  life, 

Whether  the  binding  be  rich  and  fair 
With  illuminations  and  gildings  rife, 

On  the  finest  vellum,  thick  and  rare; 
Or  whether  the  binding  be  poor  and  mean, 

Faded  and  cheap,  and  flimsy  withal, 
The  veriest  prose  that  was  ever  seen, 

To  be  found  for  a  trifle  in  any  stall: — 
And  still  the  discerning  spirit  grieves 
To  know  that  each  volume  has  uncut  leaves. 

'Tis  a  wonderful  work  from  a  Master's  hand, 

Where  comedy,  tragedy,  smiles  and  tears 
Swiftly  tread  on  the  shining  sand, 

As  the  scenes  are  shifted  by  passing  years; 
And  there  from  the  light  of  day  are  hid 

All  things  beautiful,  good  and  fair, 
In  the  brief  enclosure,  from  lid  to  lid, 

Whatever  the  heart  desires,  is  there: — 
But  oh,  how  the  spirit  grieves  and  grieves, 
O'er  the  pitiful  pathos  of  uncut  leaves. 

There  is  fair  Success  with  her  beckoning  hand, 
And  Health  with  her  rosy  and  laughing  face, 

There  is  home,  and  peace,  and  a  smiling  land 
Where  heart-ache  never  can  find  a  place. 

There  are  beautiful  children  between  the  leaves 

42 


UNCUT   LEAVES 

The  crowning  glory  of  motherhood; 
And  a  wealth  of  love  for  each  heart  that  grieves, 

A  love  that  is  never  misunderstood: — 
Yet  forever  the  watchful  spirit  grieves 
O'er  the  mystery  here  of  our  uncut  leaves. 

For  every  volume,  whate'er  it  be, 

Has  leaves  which  never  shall  see  the  light, 
Their  gracious  beauty  and  symmetry 

Are  never  disclosed  to  the  longing  sight; 
And  lives  are  clouded,  and  eyes  are  dim, 

For  lack  of  that  which  is  near  to  all; 
With  those  uncut  leaves  they  are  folded  in, 

And  they  cannot  respond  to  prayer  or  call: — 
And  throughout  life  the  spirit  grieves 
For  only  one  glimpse  of  those  uncut  leaves. 

When  shall  we  see  that  the  Author's  hand 

Which  fashioned  the  volume  we  hold  in  fee, 
With  a  wisdom  we  cannot  understand, 

Above  and  beyond  our  mastery — 
Cuts  with  a  loving  care  each  leaf, 

Never  forgetting  the  end  in  view, 
Fills  out  each  story,  however  brief, 

With  a  kind  intent  and  a  purpose  true : — 
And  who  can  doubt  that  the  Author  grieves 
When  we  question  his  love  by  our  uncut  leaves  ? 


43 


GOOD  NIGHT 

"Good  night,"  he  said,  and  yet  delayed 
With  lingering  step  and  slow; 

"Good  night,"  he  said,  and  took  her  hand 
And  felt  constrained  to  go, 

Yet  lounged  upon  the  banister 

And  twirled  his  hat  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Good  night,"  she  said,  and  gave  her  hand 

In  a  relu&ant  way, 
With  no  dislike  for  shaking  hands, 

Yet  wishing  he  would  stay; 
And,  woman-like,  she  half  divined 
That  something  still  was  on  his  mind. 

"  Good  night,"  he  said  again,  and  still 

He  did  not  really  go; 
The  parting  time  had  come  too  soon — 

Who  says  "time  creeps  but  slow?" 
He  looked  at  her  in  wistful  way 
And  quite  forgot  what  next  to  say. 


44 


"  'Tis  dangerous  to  look  up  and  smile 
When  faces  are  so  near  the  while." 


GOOD   NIGHT 

The  color  deepened  in  her  face. 

She  said,  with  sidelong  glance, 
"I  hope  that  you  will  call  again." 

He  smiled,  and  sighed,  by  chance. 
('Tis  dangerous  to  look  up  and  smile 
When  faces  are  so  near  the  while.) 

Now  what  could  she  have  half  divined, 

Or  what  had  he  to  say, 
That  made  them  loiter  half  an  hour 

In  such  a  foolish  way? 
What  do  you  think?  Now,  frank  and  true, 
I  cannot  make  it  out — can  you  ? 


45 


BEWARE 

DON'T  rhyme,  I  implore  you,  whatever  you  do 
For  the  practical  public  considers  as  true 
Each  small  flight  of  fancy  or  bubble  of  mirth, 
And  they  criticise  freely  and  crush  you  to  earth. 
If  you  write  of  a  sad  heart,  they  very  well  know 
That  your  own  that  inspired  it  has  suffered  some  blow; 
If  you  write  a  love  poem,  they  think  that  you  air, 
In  this  sweet,  private  manner,  some  tender  affair 
That  your  life  has  been  blessed  with,  and  say 

what  a  shame, 

When  so  much  has  been  told,  that  you  mention  no  name! 
If  you  write  of  life's  fortunes,  its  gladness  or  grief, 
They  read,  and  from  thence  'tis  their  settled  belief 
'Tis  some  fa£t  that  is  chronicled:  how  could  it  be 
That  fancy  could  picture  what  eyes  did  not  see? 
So,  friend,  if  you  write,  do  not  rhyme,  for  your  life 
Will  be  worn  by  sarcasm,  annoyance  and  strife; 
Your  best  friends  will  leave  you,  beyond  all  recall; 
So  write  prose,  I  pray,  if  you  must  write  at  all. 


46 


A  PICTURE  OF  THE 
VENETIAN  SEA 

(ACCOMPANYING  A  WEDDING  GIFT) 

MAY  thy  life  pure  and  placid  be 

As  shines  the  blue  Venetian  Sea, 
With  tints  of  rose  and  amethyst, 

By  sunlight  and  fair  breezes  kissed; 
And  when  the  evening  hour  draws  near 

Thy  life  still  like  that  sea  appear; 
When,  sunlight  fades  from  sandy  bars 

Its  surface  gleam,  all  heaven  and  stars. 


47 


WRITTEN  FOR  MRS.  W.  R.  W. 

ON  THE  ANNIVERSARY  OF  HER 
BIRTHDAY  AND  WEDDING,   1895 

MANY  happy  returns 

Of  the  day  you  entered  life! 

And  many  happy  returns 

Of  the  day  you  became  a  wife! 

And  may  God  grant  to  you, 

In  the  years  that  yet  befall, 

To  keep  the  blessings  that  you  have 

And  multiply  them  all. 


48 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
HELEN  CHAIN 

MR.  AND  MRS.  J.  A.  CHAIN,  LOST  ON  S.  S.  BOKA- 
RA  OFF  THE  COAST  OF  CHINA  IN  1890. 

IN  loving  hearts  a  requiem 

Is  breathing  sad  and  low, 
For  one  who  was  as  good  and  true 

As  earth  shall  ever  know; 
And  tears  are  falling  silently 

For  her,  who  'neath  the  wave 
In  foreign  seas,  neath  alien  skies, 

Has  found  an  early  grave. 

"Behold  the  bridegroom  cometh." 

The  voice  came  in  the  night; 
But  we  know  she  rose  to  meet  it 

With  her  lamp  all  trimmed  and  bright. 
And  though  upon  a  storm-tossed  sea 

Death's  angel  entered  in, 
We  know  the  Christian  confidence 

With  which  she  answered  him. 

Her  journeyings  now  are  over, 

Her  glad  bright  eyes  behold, 
More  fair  than  any  earthly  scene, 

"The  city  paved  with  gold." 
And  hand  in  hand  with  him  she  loved, 

Whose  path  had  been  her  own, 
She  passed  from  out  the  stormy  night 

To  the  glory  of  God's  throne. 


49 


IN   MEMORY  OF   HELEN   CHAIN 

We  cannot  lay  her  body  by 

In  consecrated  ground, 
We  cannot  place  the  flowers  she  loved 

Upon  her  burial  mound. 
Her  sweet,  calm  face  and  willing  hands 

Are  hidden  'neath  the  sea; 
But  let  each  heart  that  mourns  her  loss 

Embalm  her  memory. 

Upon  the  canvas  glows  and  shines 

That  which  her  brush  has  caught, 
Parts  of  the  fleeting  loveliness 

With  which  the  earth  is  fraught. 
Her  genius  and  her  patient  toil 

Have  well  reflected  there 
That  brave,  true  spirit  which  was  sent 

To  make  this  life  more  fair. 

And  who  can  raise  a  monument 

Purer,  beneath  the  sun, 
Than  she  has  built  in  loving  hearts, 

By  good  deeds  gladly  done  ? 
And  faithful  memory  and  love 

Shall  add,  from  day  to  day, 
A  lustre  which  is  not  of  earth, 

And  cannot  pass  away. 


I  AM  THE  WAY 

SO  often  have  I  stood  where  diverse  ways 

Led  East  and  West, 
And  pondered  many  weary  days, 

Which  road  were  best; 
Which  one,  if  it  were  made  my  choice, 

Were  pleasantest. 

And  I  have  chosen,  trusting  my  own  strength, 

To  follow  on; 
And  often,  often,  I  have  found  at  length 

That  it  was  wrong, 
When  all  too  late  to  remedy 

What  I  had  done. 

But  now,  I  leave  it  all  to  God, 

To  show  the  path  to  take, 
And  who  so  trusts  upon  His  choice 

Can  never  hesitate; 
For,  in  the  wisdom  of  His  sight, 

There  can  be  no  mistake. 


A  BIRTHDAY  WISH 

TO  S.  E.  W.,  D.  D.,  ON   HIS   7 1ST  BIRTHDAY 
DECEMBER   1 8,   1896. 

GOD  bless  your  birthday,  may  His  love 

Shine  on  this  morn, 
(He  blessed  the  world  indeed,  the  day 

That  you  were  born — ) 
And  may  the  bread  your  hand  has  cast 

Upon  the  earth's  troubled  tide 
Come  as  refreshment  back,  until 

Your  soul  is  satisfied. 


TO  MY  FRIEND 

Christmas,  1900. 

GOD  keep  thee  in  His  peace! 

The  world  is  wide, 
And  so  much  woe  and  sorrow 

may  betide, 
The  sweetest  and  most  loving 

hearts  that  beat, 
That  night  and  morning 

I  can  but  repeat, 
To  Him  who  listens  and  whose 

love  is  sure: — 
Keep  these  for  whom  I  pray,  dear  Lord, 

Oh,  keep  secure, 
Within  Thy  peace. 


53 


WHITE  CLOVER 

LOOK  the  world  over, 
There's  nothing  as  sweet 

As  the  dainty  white  clover 
That  blooms  at  your  feet. 

An  alien  in  part — 

To  the  west  scarcely  known — 
It  brings  to  my  heart 

A  dear  vision  of  home. 

I  see  how  it  springs 

'Mid  the  tall  meadow  grass, 
Where  the  oriole  sings 

And  the  butterflies  pass; 

Where  wild  strawberries  grow 
And  pale  apple-blooms  fall, 

And  the  field  daisies  show 
Golden-eyed  over  all. 

In  charming  completeness 

A  picture  I  trace, 
Where,  framed  by  its  sweetness, 

I  see  mother's  face. 


54 


WHITE   CLOVER 

Ah,  dear  little  clover, 

Thy  magic  I  own, 
And  am  still  thy  true  lover, 

Thou  symbol  of  home. 

For,  all  the  world  over, 
There's  nothing  as  sweet 

As  the  fragrant  white  clover 
That  blooms  at  your  feet. 


THE  REASON  WHY 

AFTER  having  seen  the  play, 

Six  young  ladies  sat  together, 
Talking,  in  a  sprightly  way, 

Somewhat  gossip,  somewhat  weather, 
Dainty  bits  of  this  and  that, 
Such  as  make  up  friendly  chat. 

Finally  they  touched  upon 

Last  night's  play,  and  then  the  star; 
Said  Miss  Sarah,  full  of  fun, 

"It  seems  strange  how  actors  are 
Mostly  sure  to  rise  above 
Commonplace  in  making  love. 

"It  may  be  an  easy  thing 

For  a  genius  like  Remart, 
After  constant  practicing, 
To  grow  perfect  in  his  art. 

Girls,  though,  isn't  it  a  shame 
All  men  cannot  be  the  same!" 


THE   REASON  WHY 

"Do  you  think  so  really,  dear?" 

Cried  one  of  the  pretty  misses; 
"  Everyone  goes  wild,  I  hear, 
On  the  perfect  way  he  kisses; 
But  last  night,  I  think,  for  one, 
It  was  not  so  finely  done. 

"  There  is  someone  I  can  show 

Living  right  here  all  the  time — 
Charley  Lane,  whom  you  all  know — 
Why,  his  kisses  are  divine! 

Sweet  and  lingering  as  can  be — 
But  few  know  of  it  save  me!"      , 

"Crazy  work"  neglected  lies, 

"Kensington"  is  quite  forgot; 
Five  young  ladies  scandalized — 
Have  they  heard  aright  or  not  ? 
All  intently  gaze  upon 
One  poor  blushing  little  one, 

Who  proceeds  in  haste  to  say, 

"  How  I  know — he  and  his  brother, 
After  having  been  away, 

At  the  depot  met  their  mother; 
And  he  kissed  her  lovingly — 
That's  the  way  I  know,  you  see!" 


57 


THE  TWILIGHT  HOUR 

WHEN  adown  the  western  skies, 
Sunlight  into  darkness  dies, 
'Neath  my  window,  sweet  and  clear, 
A  fond  mother's  voice  I  hear, 
Rising  soft  and  soothingly: 
"  Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by, 
Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by." 

Few  the  words;  they  seem  to  me 
Perfect  in  simplicity; 
Well  she  loves  the  sweet  refrain, 
Sings  it  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
While  the  stars  shine  out  on  high : 
"  Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by, 
Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by." 

What  to  her  the  busy  town, 
What  to  her  its  smile  or  frown, 
Sheltered  in  that  happy  nest, 
With  her  babe  upon  her  breast, 
Crooning  as  the  moments  fly: 
"  Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by, 
Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by." 


THE  TWILIGHT  HOUR 


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THE  TWILIGHT  HOUR 

WHEN  adown  the  western  skies, 
Sunlight  into  darkness  dies, 
'Neath  my  window,  sweet  and  clear, 
A  fond  mother's  voice  I  hear, 
Rising  soft  and  soothingly ; 

uHush?  my  baby,  by-lo-by, 
Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by." 

Few  the  words;  they  seem  to  me 
Perfect  in  simplicity; 
Well  she  loves  the  sweet  refrain, 
Sings  it  o'er  and  o'er  again, 
While  the  stars  shine  out  on  high: 

"Hush,  etc." 

What  to  her  the  busy  town, 
What  to  her  its  smile  or  frown, 
Sheltered  in  that  happy  nest, 
With  her  babe  upon  her  breast, 
Crooning  as  the  moments  fly: 

"Hush,  etc." 

From  my  listening,  selfish  heart 
Worldly  aim  and  thoughts  depart, 
And  a  blessed,  holy  calm 
Falls  upon  my  soul  like  balm, 
Listening  to  that  magic  cry: 

"Hush,  etc." 

Earth  has  music  sweet  and  strong, 
Earth  has  many  a  heavenly  song; 
But  can  angels,  in  their  bliss, 
Hear  a  sweeter  song  than  this, 
Wafted  upward  to  the  sky: 

"Hush,  etc." 


THE  TWILIGHT   HOUR 

From  my  listening,  selfish  heart 
Worldly  aim  and  thoughts  depart, 
And  a  blessed,  holy  calm 
Falls  upon  my  soul  like  balm, 
Listening  to  that  magic  cry: 
"Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by, 
Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by." 

Earth  has  music  sweet  and  strong, 
Earth  has  many  a  heavenly  song; 
But  can  angels,  in  their  bliss, 
Hear  a  sweeter  song  than  this, 
Wafted  upward  to  the  sky: 
"  Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by, 
Hush,  my  baby,  by-lo-by." 


59 


"THE  MILL  AT  REST" 

(ON  A  PAINTING  BY  EDWIN  DEAKIN) 

SILENCE  seems  never  so  profound 
As  when  the  great  mill-wheel  at  last 

Ceases  its  busy,  cheerful  round, 
And  quietly  the  stream  flows  past; 

So  still  the  place,  the  tall  birch  trees 

Scarce  tremble  in  the  summer  breeze. 

With  shining  leaves,  they  mirrored  lie 

Within  the  placid  pool  below, 
While  through  their  tangled  net  the  sky 

Does  faintly  blue  and  misty  show. 
Meanwhile,  the  birds  their  feathers  preen 
Sheltered  within  the  leafy  screen. 

Some  soft,  low  sounds — from  whence  they  steal 

One  scarce  can  say,  unless  it  be 
Bright  drops  from  off  the  dripping  wheel, 

Or  birch  bark  loosening  from  the  tree. 
Nature,  indeed,  has  power  to  bless 
Within  this  haunt  of  quietness. 

The  canvas  fades;  the  master's  art 
So  well  and  cunningly  has  wrought, 

That  it  of  nature  seems  a  part, 

And,  gazing,  there  is  ne'er  a  thought 

By  what  strange  necromancy  we 

Behold  this  scene  from  over  sea. 


60 


HE  KNOWETH  BEST 

MY  little  bird  looks  up  at  me 
With  eyes  of  pleading  misery, 
When  for  a  season,  less  or  more, 
Upon  his  cage  I  close  the  door 

And  shut  him  in. 

He  loves  so  well,  this  small  bright  thing, 
The  freedom  of  his  glancing  wing, 
The  power  to  choose  his  place  of  song; 
To  come  and  go  the  whole  day  long 

Is  joy  to  him. 

I  have  no  means  at  my  command, 
By  which  to  make  him  understand 
The  loving  service  I  have  done, 
The  evil  I  have  saved  him  from 

Which  I  can  see. 

But  soon,  forgetting  grief  and  wrong, 
He  trills  again  his  cheerful  song, 
And  waits  the  opening  of  the  door, 
Which  all  his  little  joys  restore 

And  sets  him  free. 

Dear  Lord,  I  thus  would  yield  to  Thee 
My  cheerful,  loving  loyalty. 
Thou  dost  not  tell  the  reason  why 
Some  heartfelt  prayers  Thou  dost  deny, 

But  this  is  plain; 

(I  to  my  soul  sweet  comfort  take) 
Thy  wisdom  can  make  no  mistake, 
And  though  I  grieve,  I  understand, 
And  clasp  by  faith  thy  loving  hand, 
Which  bears,  I  trust,  my  name. 

61 


EASTER  LILIES 

BLOOM  fair,  ye  lilies!  Loose  the  bands 

Of  your  green  prison! 
Shake  out  your  robes  with  fairy  hands, 

For  "  Christ  is  risen." 

Don  all  your  saintly  vestures  white, 

Ye  symbols  holy 
Of  Him  who  rose  with  Easter  light, 

uThe  meek  and  lowly." 

Lift  up  your  golden  eyes  to  Him 

In  sweet  submission, 
Who,  fairer  and  as  free  from  sin, 

Was  Hope's  fruition. 

How  blessed  of  all  flowers  that  grow, 

Your  rite  performing, 
To  deck  His  shrine  with  perfumed  snow 

On  Easter  morning. 


62 


EASTER    MORNING 

Yet  bloom  with  loveliness  the  same 

In  church  or  prison, 
And  to  each  waiting  heart  proclaim: 

"The  Lord  is  risen!" 

Oh,  may  our  souls  as  fair  as  ye, 

His  courts  adorning, 
Join  in  the  choral  minstrelsy 

Some  Easter  morning. 


VIOLETS 

OF  all  the  lovely  flowers  that  blow, 

Violets,  spring  violets, 
I  send  the  sweetest  ones  that  grow, — 

Spring's  first  violets. 
Woodland  breath,  and  dainty  hue; 
May  they  softly  whisper  you, 
Of  my  friendship  warm  and  true, 

Sent  to  you  by  violets. 


64 


A  CLEAR  CASE 

"NO  Jack,  I'm  not  jealous;  what  led  you  to  think 

I  would  cherish  a  feeling  so  base? 
I  know  you  intend  your  remarks  in  good  part, 

When  you  speak  in  this  way  to  my  face; 
But  jealousy,  Jack,  is  a  thing  I  despise; 
Any  man  can  be  free  from  its  power  if  he  tries. 

"Your  opinion  is  founded,  I  haven't  a  doubt, 

On  my  words  of  a  moment  ago. 
All  I  meant  was,  the  rules  of  society  now 

Are  more  lax  than  they  should  be,  you  know; 
And  I  wish  that  a  man  and  a  woman  could  see 
More  alike  in  regard  to  how  things  ought  to  be. 

"I  have  all  faith  in  Sarah — I  know  she  is  true, 

That  she  loves  me  I  haven't  a  doubt; 
Still  we  cannot  be  married  a  year  or  two  yet — 

She  is  lonely  when  I'm  not  about. 
So  I  wish  her  to  go;  and  I  tell  her  she  may 
Keep  her  gentleman  friends  in  the  old,  pleasant  way. 

"But  I  don't  like  Rob  Lane  and  I  don't  like  McKay, 

And  her  preference  falls  upon  them; 
I  find  one  of  them  there,  call  whenever  I  may — 

I'm  surprised,  they're  such  commonplace  men; 
And  they  never  leave  first  when  we  meet  there  to  call, 
So  I  do  not  like  them,  nor  their  manners,  at  all. 


A  CLEAR   CASE 

"Then  she  welcomes  them  both  in  her  bright,  pretty  way, 
Just  as  though — but  of  course  I  don't  mind — 

She  has  got  to  do  that  if  she  keeps  her  old  friends  ; 
It  is  best,  and  I'm  sure  I'm  resigned, 

But  if  I  were  jealous,  I'd  not  like  the  way 

They  hold  her  in  waltzing,  whatever  you  say. 

"If  you  did  the  same,  now,  I  never  should  mind; 

It  would  seem  to  be  proper  and  right. 
Yes,  I'll  take  you  to  call,  with  much  pleasure,  sometime — 

I  have  other  engagements  to-night. 
Would  it  suit  you  next  week,  or  the  next,  we  will  say? 
Or  it  may  be  as  well  that  we  don't  set  a  day. 

"  But  now,  as  to  jealousy,  what  I  have  said 

Will  convince  you  that  I  am  quite  free 
From  that  passion;  so  Jack,  you  have  wasted  your  breath, 

Old  fellow,  in  talking  to  me. 
But,  though  I'm  not  jealous  of  Lane  or  McKay 
I  may  have  to  shoot  one  or  both  yet  some  day!" 


66 


OLD  LOVE  LETTERS 

SOMETIMES  when  I  take  me 

A  wee  little  space 
And  look  on  my  life 

As  it  is,  face  to  face, 
And  regret  all  the  good  left  undone 
And  take  shame  for  what  little  I  do, 
Then  I  hie  me  away  at  the  close  of  the  day 
And  read  my  old  love  letters  through. 

It  is  not  the  sentiment 

Penned  on  each  page, 
Where  the  paper  is  yellow 

The  ink  pale  with  age, 
That  I  hunger  for  now  at  this  day 
When  each  love  has,  long  since,  found  his  own, 
And  in  playing  life's  game  has  forgotten  my  name 
In  the  years  that  have  come  and  have  flown. 

Ah,  those  magical  letters 

A  picture  supply 
Of  the  girl  I  was  once, 

Of  that  girl  who  was  I — 
Loving-hearted  and  merry  withal, 
With  high  hopes  of  the  good  she  would  do, 
Who  looks  out  from  each  page  that  is  yellow  with  age 
When  I  read  my  old  love  letters  through. 


SOLICITUDE 

WHEN  dear  Dolly  goes  out 

On  old  Dobbin  to  ride, 
What  a  ravishing  sight 

To  my  eye  is  presented, 
As  she  sits  there  enthroned 

In  her  beauty  and  pride, 
How  my  love  for  that  pink  and  white 

Maid  is  augmented ! 

Though  Dobbin  is  trusty 

And  Dobbin  is  sure, 
And  in  dignified  state  he  will 

Safely  uphold  you, 
Ah,  darling,  indeed 

I  should  feel  more  secure, 
If  instead  of  the  saddle 

My  arms  could  enfold  you. 


68 


TO  MY  GUEST 

Enter  this  chamber,  welcome  friend, 

And  may  thy  rest  be  sweet. 

Thy  guardian  angel  thee  attend 

With  sweet  refreshing  sleep. 

Put  off  the  day's  soil  for  the  night, 

(Thy  clothing  and  thy  cares) 

Attired  in  garments  pure  and  white, 

Kneel  down  and  say  thy  prayers; 

The  past  and  future  all  forego, 

A  quiet  spirit  keep, 

And  thankful  close  thine  eyes,  "for  so 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


69 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

THE  morning  stars  together  sang, 
The  angels  joined  the  glad  refrain, 

Throughout  high  heaven  their  voices  rang, 
And  wafted  down  the  anthem  came 

Of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  this  morn, 

For  in  the  night  already  passed 
Lo!  Christ  was  born. 

Join  in  the  song  ye  little  ones 

Who  find  upon  the  Christmas  tree 

Or  in  your  stocking,  brimming  full, 
Good  cause  for  happiness  and  glee; 

With  fresh  young  voices  greet  the  morn, 

For  unto  you — a  Christmas  gift — 
Lo!  Christ  is  born. 

Sing,  dainty  maidens,  fair  and  sweet 
As  apple  blossoms  in  the  spring; 

And  youth,  just  claiming  man's  estate, 
With  good  will  let  your  voices  ring; 

Join  in  the  song  of  joy  this  morn, 

For  unto  you — a  Christmas  gift — 
Lo!  Christ  is  born. 


Sing,  every  one  on  earth  to-day, 

Whoe'er  hath  grieved  or  suffered  pain, 

Sorrow's  dark  mantle  falls  away, 

Look  up  and  join  the  sweet  refrain; 

With  glad  accord  proclaim  the  morn, 
For  in  the  darkness  of  your  night 
Lo !  Christ  is  born. 

He  comes  in  gleaming  robes  of  white, 

Calm,  loving,  pitiful,  serene; 
Fall  down  before  his  presence  bright, 

And  touch  the  robe  which  has  no  seam; 
With  grateful  hearts  give  praise  this  morn, 

For  unto  all — a  blessed  gift — 
Lo!  Christ  is  born. 


THANKSGIVING 

THIS  morn,  O  God,  on  lowly  bended  knee 
Fair  Colorado  lifts  her  heart  to  Thee 

In  thankful  praise; 

For  all  the  blessings  which  the  year  has  brought, 
For  all  the  mercies  Thy  dear  hand  hath  wrought 

In  divers  ways. 

We  thank  Thee,  Lord,Thou  hast  preserved  from  fire, 
From  flood,  from  pestilence,  and  famine  dire 

Our  much  loved  land; 
Kindly  forgiving  our  unworthiness. 
Thou  hast  seen  fit,  O  Lord,  to  hold  and  bless 

Within  Thy  hand. 

Snow-capped  our  mountains,  bearing  yellow  gold, 
Smiling  our  plains,  with  fruitfulness  untold, 

Healthful  the  breeze; 

Do  Thou,  most  kindly,  graciously  draw  near, 
List,  while  Thy  loving,  waiting  children  here, 

Bless  Thee  for  these. 

Nothing  we  ask,  in  Thee  we  put  our  trust. 
Thou  knowest,  Father,  what  is  best  for  us; 

Thy  hand  alway 

Tempers  the  wind,  and  whatsoe'er  betide 
Will  bring  again  a  sweet,  well-satisfied 

Thanksgiving  Day. 


72 


MY  PRAYER 

I  DO  not  ask  that  God  shall  send 

New  gifts  from  day  to  day, 
Just  that  the  dear  familiar  ones 

He  will  not  take  away ; 
Contentment,  friends,  and  daily  bread, 

And  His  continued  care, 
Seem  very  much  for  me  to  ask 

When  seeking  God  in  prayer, 


73 


THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW 

WRITTEN  FOR  LAST  SERVICE  IN  OLD  PRESBY 
TERIAN  CHURCH,  CORNER  SECOND  SOUTH  AND 
SECOND  EAST  STREETS.  SALT  LAKE  CITY,  APRIL 

16,  1905. 

WE  are  leaving  the  old  church  home  to-day  ; 

From  its  sheltering  roof  we  are  going  away, 

With  its  clinging  memories,  sweet  and  dear, 

Which  have  stronger  grown  with  each  passing  year. 

Prayers  have  gone  up  from  this  holy  place, 

In  the  hours  of  need,  to  the  throne  of  Grace. 

Prayers  have  been  answered,  full  and  free, 

By  our  Father  who  giveth  willingly. 

Here  has  baptismal  water  shed 

Its  blessings  on  many  a  childish  head. 

Here  have  the  youths  and  maidens  come 

To  learn  the  way  to  the  Heavenly  home. 

And  many,  before  this  altar  old, 

Have  entered  the  Master's  earthly  fold. 

Lovers  have  plighted  their  vows  for  life, 

And  have  left  its  portals  as  man  and  wife. 

Here,  on  many  a  morning  fair, 

Lilies  have  sweetened  the  Easter  air, 

And  year  by  year  have  its  Christmas  joys 

Brightened  the  lives  of  the  girls  and  boys. 

Here  have  the  blessed  words  been  read 

From  the  Holy  Book  o'er  our  sainted  dead ; 


74 


THE   OLD  AND  THE   NEW 

And  the  world  has  wept  with  our  sorrow  sore, 
With  the  little  white  hearse  at  the  old  church  door. 
These  are  the  thoughts  which  hallow  to-day 
The  place  from  which  we  are  going  away. 

This  is  the  old.  We  go  forth  to  the  new, 
A  household  of  faith  which  is  tried  and  true, 
Pastor  and  people  whose  hopes  are  one; 
Where  we  are  lead,  we  are  following  on; 
From  one  tent  in  the  wilderness  to-day 
We  pass  to  another;  God  leads  the  way. 
The  ark  of  his  Covenant  still  must  rest 
Just  where,  in  his  wisdom,  it  seemeth  best. 
The  harvest  is  white  which  we  go  to  claim, 
With  courage  and  strength,  in  our  Master's  name. 


75 


COLORADO 

NO  lovelier  maiden  does  the  sun 

In  all  his  course  look  down  upon 

From  cloudless  skies  of  ether  blue, 

With  loving  eye,  steadfast  and  true, 

Charmed  by  her  beauty  and  her  grace, 

He  smiles  forever  on  her  face. 

Of  sister  States  the  youngest  one, 

Her  birth-place  near  the  setting  sun, 

Our  God  has  held  her  in  His  care, 

And  yearly  she  has  grown  more  fair. 

Well  taught  in  church  and  school  is  she 

To  fill  her  place  with  dignity. 

A  quiet  taste  is  in  her  gown 

Of  springtime  green  or  autumn  brown, 

Brilliant  and  beautiful  and  sweet 

The  wild  flowers  spring  beneath  her  feet. 

No  maiden  can  successful  vie 

With  her  substantial  legacy; 

Yet  year  by  year  to  industry 

She  gives  her  young  hands  willingly. 

Her  fertile  lands  yield  rich  increase, 

Her  manufactures  never  cease; 

And  snow-capped  mountains,  strong  and  old, 

Contain  her  riches  manifold, 


COLORADO 

While  flocks  and  herds  on  either  hand, 
In  mountain  parks,  on  prairie  land, 
Improve  and  richly  multiply, 
And  all  the  Eastern  world  defy. 

God's  blessing  on  our  fair  young  State, 
For  her  may  future  glory  wait, 
And  still  her  air  give  life  and  health, 
And  still  her  traffic  teem  with  wealth, 
And  down  the  dim,  far-coming  days, 
Ring  fair  dear  Colorado's  praise. 


77 


IN  A  BUCKET 

WAS  she  really  flirtatious?  Indeed,  I  should  say, 

Or  appearances  strangely  belied  her  to  me ; 
With  a  mood  like  a  dress  for  each  part  of  the  day, 

And  as  charming  in  each  as  a  woman  could  be. 
Well,  I  held  out  at  first — I  was  loath  to  confess 

I  was  really  in  love  with  a  girl  of  that  style ; 
And  then,  I'd  a  partial  engagement  with  Bess, 

Whom  I  thought  I  would  marry  yet,  after  a  while. 

With  that  half  understanding,  I  didn't  feel  free 

To  make  love,  though  I  did,  to  another  just  then ; 
One  can't  tell  what  he'll  do  till  the  time  comes,  you  see- 

I  thought  I  was  quite  the  most  steadfast  of  men. 
Then  she  wouldn't  believe  me,  whatever  I  said, 

And  I  grew  more  in  earnest  to  prove  it  was  true ; 
But  I  had  not  much  chance  to  convince  her,  for  Ned 

And  her  mother  and  sister  went  everywhere,  too. 

When  I  saw  where  my  footsteps  were  tending,  I  tried, 

Conscientiously  tried,  to  keep  out  of  their  way 
Until  I  just  felt  I  must  see  her ;  beside, 

She  showed  no  concern — I  could  go  or  could  stay. 
No,  I'm  not  going  to  rave,  you  know  all  I  could  say, 

You've  been  there  yourself,  I  presume,  in  your  time ; 
I  was  just  good  for  nothing  when  she  was  away, 

And  the  third  one  along  looked  to  me  like  design. 

78 


For  protection,  I  just  put  my  arm  round  her  waist." 


IN    A    BUCKET 

Till  one  day  at  Ruby,  that  queer  little  camp, 

On  the  side  of  the  mountain  so  near  to  the  snow, 
We  all  started  out  for  our  usual  tramp 

Without  any  design  as  to  where  we  would  go  ; 
Till  we  met  with  a  friend  at  the  Forest  Queen  mine, 

Who  asked  us  to  go  down  the  shaft  to  explore 
The  large  excavation — he  came  just  in  time, 

And  the  ladies  were  sure  that  a  treat  was  in  store. 

We  went  down  in  the  bucket  (we  could  have  gone  in 

Through  the  tunnel,  I  learned  later  on  in  the  day); 
But  now  was  the  time  for  my  luck  to  begin — 

I  was  suited,  indeed,  going  down  in  that  way, 
Well,  our  friend  and  mamma  were  the  first  ones  who  went, 

Then  Miss  Fannie  and  Ned  followed  next  on  the  list, 
Leaving  us  two  alone  for  the  swift,  dark  descent ; 

Fate  sent  me  that  chance,  I  shall  ever  insist. 

Down  into  the  shaft,  while  the  light  faded  out, 

And  the  damp  air  arose  with  such  swift  chilly  haste 
That  she  really  was  frightened,  there  wasn't  a  doubt ; 

For  protection,  I  just  put  my  arm  round  her  waist. 
How  she  clung  to  me,  frightened,  I'll  never  forget; 

All  her  teasing  and  nonsense  for  once  were  laid  by. 
She'd  have  clung  just  the  same  to  a  stranger,  and  yet 

You'll  believe  me,  of  course,  I  was  glad  it  was  I. 

To  our  rapid  descent  came  a  slackening  speed, 

And  we  hung  there  midway,  in  the  damp,  chilly  air , 

To  this  day  I  don't  know  what  the  cause  was — indeed, 
I  was  suited  so  well  that  I  really  don't  care, 


79 


IN     A    BUCKET 

She  was  trembling  with  terror — her  dear,  saucy  head 
Smothered  down  on  my  shoulder  so  near  to  my  face, 

I  can't  just  remember  the  words  that  I  said ; 
However,  I  think  that  they  suited  the  case. 

If  she  loved  me,  I'd  save  her,  or  something  like  that; 

She  whispered  she  did,  as  she  clung  by  my  side. 
You  think  that  I  had  the  advantage  ?  That's  pat, 

And  so  perfectly  so  that  it  can't  be  denied. 
Then  down  to  the  station  the  bucket  sped  fast, 

As  though  it  had  waited  this  very  result, 
And  we  reached  her  distracted  relations  at  last, 

Where  the  pale  candles  shone  on  the  nervous  tumult. 

What  had  been  the  matter  ?   How  were  we  detained  ? 

Were  we  safe?  Were  we  hurt?  Should  we  go?  Should 

we  stay? 
I  said  that  I  thought  it  was  best  we  remained, 

But  my  darling  seemed  quiet  the  rest  of  the  day, 
And  so  all  will  end  as  I  wish.    Give  me  joy  ! 

Though  she  says  she  was  jesting,  I  hold  her  secure ; 
I  will  speak  for  you  now  as  my  best  man,  old  boy, 

For  I'll  need  you  some  time  pretty  soon,  I  am  sure. 


80 


THE  SONG  OF  SILVER 

From  the  heart  of  the  Rockies  I  come, 

Wakened  up,  in  my  deep  silent  home, 

From  my  sleep  of  the  centuries  there, 

By  the  drill  and  the  glare 

Of  brilliant  explosions  in  air. 

I  have  been  in  the  heart  of  the  furnace  entombed. 

There  was  that,  in  my  heart,  that  could  not  be  consumed. 

I  shall  live  when  the  hands  that  evoke  me  to-day 

With  their  cunning  and  strength  shall  have  long  passed 

away. 

One  pure  flake,  from  the  store  house  of  nature  I  come, 
From  "  The  Rockies" — my  home. 


81 


CHARITY 

THE    WATER    SYSTEM    OF   DENVER   IN    1883  WAS   THE   HOLLY 
SYSTEM  AND  USUALLY  REFERRED  TO  AS  "THE   HOLLY." 

AS  you  sit  by  the  fire  discussing  together 
The  many  discomforts  of  very  cold  weather ; 
How  house-plants  are  frosted,  although  fires  shine, 
And  "  The  Holly  "  is  useless  the  most  of  the  time  ; 
How  shopping's  suspended  by  cold  and  by  storm, 
And  one's  time  nearly  taken  to  keep  one's  self  warm ; 
While  mentioning  trials  you  have  to  endure, 
For  a  moment  desist — and  remember  the  poor  ! 

Ah,  think  of  the  people  both  homeless  and  cold, 
Whose  misery  and  suffering  cannot  be  told  ; 
Of  mothers  who  have  not  a  morsel  of  food 
Or  a  blanket  to  wrap  up  their  cold,  starving  brood ; 
Of  the  tents  they  inhabit,  with  feet  cold  and  bare — 
And  to  those  who  have  nothing,  give  what  you  can  spare. 
Think,  in  merciful  kindness,  of  what  they  endure, 
And,  forgetting  small  trials,  remember  the  poor. 

Are  you  Christians  ?   You  know,  then,  'tis  Christ  that 

you  feed 

When  you  minister  unto  the  sufferer's  need  ; 
It  is  Christ  that  you  clothe,  'tis  with  him  that  you  share 
The  bounty  He  gives  and  intrusts  to  your  care. 
Can  you  ask  "  daily  bread  "   from  the  bountiful  One 
When  you  know  what  He  gives  you  to  do  is  undone  ? 
Ah,  when  Mercy  and  Chanty  knock  at  your  door, 
It  is  Christ  that  entreats  you,  "  Remember  the  poor." 


82 


'A  roofless  cabin,  of  logs  rough  hewn." 


THE  DESERTED   CLAIM 

UP  where  the  snow  shines  pure  and  white 

On  the  peaks  that  point  to  the  summer  sky, 
Up  in  the  gulch  by  the  evening  light 

I  saw,  as  we  travelled  slowly  by, 
A  claim  deserted  and  left  alone, 

A  shaft  half  sunk  in  the  mountain  side, 
A  roofless  cabin,  of  logs  rough  hewn, 

Where  some  one  had  labored  till  hope  had  died. 

And  later  on,  when  our  camp  was  made 

And  the  white  tents  pitched  for  another  night, 
While  the  pine-trees  weirdly  tossed  and  swayed 

In  the  cheerful  glow  of  our  camp-fire  light ; 
When  merry  voices  rang  on  the  air, 

And  smiling  faces  flashed  in  and  out ; 
I  thought  of  that  cabin,  rude  and  bare, 

Of  its  owner,  who  labored  in  hope  and  doubt. 

He  had  come,  perhaps,  from  some  Eastern  home, 

For  speedy  wealth,  to  the  Western  clime, 
And  homesick  and  weary,  and  all  alone, 

He  had  faithfully  toiled  for  some  friendly  sign. 
Cold  moans  the  wind  through  the  canon  deep, 

And  the  coyote  cries  through  the  night  hours  drear ; 
There  are  unknown  footsteps  that  softly  creep, 

And  the  voice  of  the  burro  is  kindlv  cheer. 


»3 


THE    DESERTED  CLAIM 

Still  he  dreamed  as  others  had  done  before — 

As  others  shall  do  in  the  days  to  come — 
Of  finding  wealth  in  unbounded  store, 

And  joyfully  bearing  his  treasure  home  ; 
Dame  Fortune  is  chary  when  all  is  told, 

Her  smiles  are  the  hardest  on  earth  to  gain, 
And  where  one  is  favored  with  shining  gold 

A  thousand  others  may  toil  in  vain. 

Thus  I  sit  and  muse  in  the  camp-fire  glow, 

While  the  welcome  evening  meal  is  spread, 
And  the  sound  of  the  river  comes  soft  and  low, 

And  the  stars  shine  brilliantly  overhead ; 
For  my  heart  is  saddened  as  day  by  day 

We  pass  in  sunshine  or  dripping  rain, 
That  frequent  road-mark  upon  our  way, 

A  deserted,  desolate  mining  claim. 


84 


PROSPERITY 

He  built  a  cabin  beneath  the  hill, 

Facing  the  west  where  the  sun  went  down  ; 

He  worked  with  a  steadfast,  joyful  will, 

While  the  leaves  were  sere  and  the  earth  was  brown 

He  worked  as  a  miner  has  need  to  do, 

Who  has  made  up  his  mind  to  work  for  two. 

There  in  the  spring  he  brought  his  bride, 
Loving  and  fair-faced,  brave  and  young, 

When  the  birds  sung  sweet  on  the  mountain  side, 
And  the  gentians  blue  in  the  valley  sprung ; 

While  brighter  than  western  sunshine  shone 

The  light  of  love  in  that  tiny  home. 

His  strong  brown  hands,  day  after  day, 

Labored  and  ever  stronger  grew  ; 
While,  in  a  womanly,  winsome  way, 

Her  small  hands  ever  were  busy,  too  ; 
And  lovers  still  when  the  day  was  o'er, 
They  laughed  and  talked  by  the  open  door. 


•PROSPERITY 

Bright  rugs  she  knit  for  her  rough-hewn  floor, 
And  ruffles  white  at  the  windows  hung ; 

She  made  the  most  of  their  scanty  store, 
Deftly  and  sweetly  she  wrought  and  sung ; 

While  the  birds  and  the  bees  peeped  in  to  see 

What  caused  such  brightness  and  melody. 

Time  sped  in  his  long  accustomed  way, 
And  the  seasons  hand  in  hand  passed  by, 

Till  the  news  flew  through  the  camp  one  day, 
"  They  have  struck  it  rich  in  the  Firefly  "; 

And  the  miner  carried  home  with  joy, 

The  news  to  his  wife  and  baby  boy. 

"  Dear  heart,"  he  cried,  "  it  has  come  at  last ; 

I  have  waited  long  for  this  golden  day, 
Our  labor  and  poverty  now  are  past, 

We  will  sell  the  mine  and  go  away ; 
And  every  happiness  under  the  sun 
I'll  procure  for  you  and  the  little  one." 

He  sold  the  mine  and  they  went  away, 

From  the  little  home  on  the  hillside  brown; 

You  can  see  them  almost  any  day, 

As  they  come  and  go  in  the  busy  town ; 

But  if  wealth  has  doubled  their  happiness 

There's  no  surface  sign  of  its  sweet  success. 


86 


PROSPERITY 

They  have  now  a  town  and  a  country  place, 
She's  a  woman  of  fashion  and  rich  display, 

With  no  lines  of  mirth  on  her  careworn  face 
As  she  rides  alone  in  her  fine  coupe ; 

And  scandal  is  busy  with  the  fame 

Of  him  whom  it  once  dared  never  name. 

And  the  world  looks  on  and  sighs,  "  Ah  me, 
How  favored  indeed  some  people  seem ; 

They  rise  in  a  moment  from  poverty 

To  the  highest  flight  of  their  fairest  dream ; 

But  it  is  not  the  fortune  of  all  to  be 

So  smiled  upon  by  prosperity." 


IN  HIS  NAME 

LEADVILLE,   1887 

For  three  days  it  had  snowed,  and  the  mantle  of  white 
Hid  everything  deeper  and  deeper  from  sight, 
And  the  wind,  as  it  blustered  so  bitter  and  cold, 
Wreathed  the  edge  of  each  snow-drift  with  feathery  fold. 
From  a  miner's  rude  cabin,  a  woman's  fond  eyes 
Gazed  wistfully  out  on  the  grey,  threatening  skies. 
For  two  days  had  she  waited,  distracted  by  fear, 
For  the  coming  of  him  whom  her  heart  held  most  dear. 
Where  was  he  ?   What  evil  had  caused  this  delay  ? 
What  harm  had  befallen  his  steps  by  the  way  ? 
She  was  helpless — her  baby  lay  there  in  its  bed, 
And  how  could  she  leave  it,  the  mother  heart  said. 
Then  the  feeling  of  wifehood  arose  in  its  power, 
Saying,  "  Hasten,  your  husband  may  need  you  this  hour ; 
May  be  lost  in  the  snow,  may  be  dying,  or  dead, 
When  perhaps  you  could  save  him,"  the  warning  voice 

said. 

Kneeling  down  by  the  cradle,  she  breathed  one  swift  prayer, 
Resigning  her  babe  and  herself  to  His  care 
Who  sees  even  the  sparrow — then  with  face  set  and  white, 
Out  into  the  snow  and  the  gathering  night. 
Up,  up  on  the  mountain  side,  struggling  on, 
Where  the  snow  lay  unbroken  her  path  must  be  won ; 


IN     HIS    NAME 

And  the  merciless  wind — how  it  buffets  and  sighs 

And  sifts  the  sharp  snow  in  her  strained,  anxious  eyes  ! 

Darker  yet,  deeper  still  drifts  the  snow  round  her  feet ; 

How  helpless  she  feels  in  the  night  and  the  sleet ! 

Must  she  fail  and  turn  back  ere  her  strength  is  quite   gone, 

And  retrace,  while  she  may,  what  her  frail  strength  has 

won  ? 

Now  she  pauses,  she  falters — What  was  that?  Did  she  hear 
A  low,  feeble  call  ?   There  must  some  one  be  near — 
From  whence  did  it  come  ?   There  is  nothing  in  sight. 
Ah,  yes  !   Further  up  on  the  hill  to  her  right 
There's  a  spot  in  the  snow — 'tis  the  mouth  of  a  shaft, 
Deserted  and  thus  without  covering  left. 
With  new  hope  in  her  heart,  that  yet  struggles  with  fear, 
On  her  hands  and  her  knees  to  the  shaft  she  draws  near; 
Then  she  calls, — holds  her  breath  lest  she  miss  some  faint 

cry,— 

Listens  long, — calls  again, — still  there  comes  no  reply. 
"  Herbert !   Herbert !"   she  cries,  "  are  you  there,  husband 

dear  ?" 

And  the  faintest  reply  at  last  blesses  her  ear : 
"  Yes,  yes  ;  but  so  helpless  my  strength  is  all  gone, 
And  I  surely  must  die  here  if  you  are  alone." 
Let  the  storm  rage,  she  heeds  not ;  a  woman,  indeed  ! 
The  might  of  a  giant  she  feels  in  her  need — 
Strips  the  shawl  from  her  head,  tears  it  up  with  her 

strength, 

It  is  woollen,  and  double,  and  length  upon  length 
She  knots  fast.    Will  it  reach  him  ?   She  ties  it  around 
The  end  of  a  stump  that  projects  from  the  ground 
Through  the  snow,  and  she  calls,  "  Herbert,  here  is  a  rope, 


IN    HIS    NAME 

'Tis  the  best  that  I  have,  'tis  our  one,  only  hope  ; 

Try  to  climb  to  the  top,  I  will  help  you,  my  dear. 

Be  strong  !   God  is  with  us  ;   He  guided  me  here." 

It  has  reached  him,  it  sways  with  a  weight  not  its  own, 

She  has  done  what  she  can  and  she  waits  there  alone; 

He  is  coming,  she  leano  o'er  the  brink  in  the  dark 

And  whispers,  "  I'm  waiting  to  help  you,  take  heart ! 

Hold  fast ;  It  is  only  a  little  way  now, 

I  would  help  you  still  more  if  I  only  knew  how." 

Thank  God  !   Her  strong  arms  draw  him  to  her  at  last, 

And  he  falls  by  her  side,  and  the  danger  is  past. 

Weak,  helpless,  those  two  on  the  mountain  alone 

In  the  dark,  but  the  wind  has  died  down  to  a  moan 

And  the  bright  stars  shine  out  from  their  homes  in  the  skies, 

And  reflect  their  cold  light  in  two  radiant  eyes. 

He  is  safe  !  What  to  her  is  their  own  lack  of  gold  ? 

What  to  her  is  the  wealth  of  the  mountain  untold  ? 

She  has  rescued  from  death  what  to  her  has  more  worth 

Than  all  of  the  wealth  of  the  mines  upon  earth ; 

And  with  more  thankful  hearts  than  they  ever  have  known, 

They  make  their  way  down  to  their  own  humble  home. 


THE  ROBINS 

LEADVILLE 

THERE'S  no  sign  of  spring  verdure, 

To  cheer  longing  eyes ; 
There  is  only  a  softened 

Warm  hue  to  the  skies  : 
While  the  mountains  less  snowy  appear, 
And  our  hearts  would  still  fear 
That  the  spring  was  not  here — 

But  the  robins  have  come ! 

Why  they  seek  mountain  peaks, 

Grey  with  rock,  cold  with  snow, 
Instead  of  the  clover  clad 

Meadows  below, 

Or  the  fields  where  sweet  apple-trees  bloom, 
Where  fresh  budding  greenness  is  breathing  perfume, 
No  one  knows  ;  but  each  heart  has  a  welcome  in  tune, — 

For  the  robins  have  come  ! 

Up  the  side  of  the  mountain, 

I  listen  to  hear 
His  dear,  welcome  voice, 

Piping  gladsome  and  clear  ; 

And  he  sings  to  my  heart,  "Lo,  the  winter  is  past, 
Be  content,  be  content,  where  your  lot  may  be  cast, 
Make  the  most  of  your  blessings,  while  blessings  shall  last; 

To  help  you  I've  come." 

And  the  robins  are  here  ! 


CAMPING  OUT 

ESTES  PARK,   I  88  7 

Oh  I've  had  such  a  jolly  time, 

I  scarce  can  write  it  down  ! 
Have  been  off  on  a  camping  trip 

And  just  got  back  to  town  ; — 
And  for  the  sake  of  those  poor  souls 

Who  had  at  home  to  stay, 
I'll  give  you  the  experience 

Of  one  who's  been  away. 

Camping  on  the  mountain, 

Camping  on  the  plain, 
In  the  broiling  sunshine, 

In  the  pouring  rain  ; 
With  the  gay  mosquito 

And  festive  ants  and  flies, 
Where  pleasure,  like  the  wood-tick, 

Never,  never  dies. 

Where  the  sand  and  wind-storms 

And  other  joys  you  meet 
Make  you  for  the  moment 

Quite  forget  the  heat. 
You  live  on  ham  or  bacon, 

With  biscuit  piping  hot ; 
Or,  if  these  rations  fail  you, 

Why,  you  live  on  what  you've  got. 


You  sit  about  the  camp-fire 
And  hear  weird  stories  told.' 


CAMPING    OUT 

You  think  of  daily  papers, 

And  fruit  and  things  you've  seen ; 
And  wonder  if  again  on  earth 

You  ever  can  be  clean. 
Dirt  sifts  on  your  person, 

It  gathers  on  your  clothes, 
And  gently  spreads  from  ear  to  ear 

Across  your  sunburnt  nose. 

You  sit  about  the  camp-fire 

And  hear  weird  stories  told ; 
You  sing  into  the  "wee  sma"'  hours 

And  catch  your  death  of  cold. 
And  then  upon  the  pine  branches 

In  your  pretty  tent  so  white, 
You  try  to  sleep  in  blankets  moist 

For  the  balance  of  the  night. 

The  coyotes  cry,  but  what  of  that  ? 

You  strive  to  still  your  fears, 
While  the  night  grows  cold  and  colder 

And  the  bugs  creep  in  your  ears. 
You  might  feel  quite  unhappy, 

Sometimes,  without  a  doubt; 
Unless  constantly  assured, 

"  It's  so  nice,  this  camping  out !" 


93 


CAMPING    OUT 

You  feel  you've  been  out  camping 

For  ages,  so  to  speak, 
When,  by  the  trusty  almanac, 

It's  only  just  a  week. 
There's  lots  of  fun  in  camping — 

You  scorn  the  things  you  lack ; 
But  oh,  the  greatest  fun  of  all 

Consists  in  coming  back  ! 


94 


COMPENSATION 

IN  a  brilliant  blaze  of  amber 

The  sun  has  sunk  to  rest, 
Leaving  but  a  golden  glow 

On  the  highest  mountain  crest ; 
And  the  shadows  of  evening  find  their  way 
Where  pick  and  shovel  have  rung  all  day. 

There's  an  odor  of  pine  and  spruce 

Upon  the  snow-cooled  breeze, 
That  wanders  down  through  the  canon 

And  flutters  the  aspen  leaves  ; 
There's  a  twitter  of  birds  and  a  coyote's  cry, 
When  stars  shine  out  in  the  darkening  sky. 

Down  from  his  work  comes  the  miner 

To  his  lowly  cabin  home, 
Weary  with  all  the  labor 

His  sturdy  strength  has  known  ; 
Tired  and  slow  at  the  close  of  day, 
Miner  and  burro  wend  their  way. 

The  world  seems  filled  with  labor, 

With  toil  and  endless  care, 
That  come  like  the  rain  from  heaven, 

And  each  must  take  his  share ; 
Now,  after  his  daily  work  is  done 
The  weary  miner  comes  slowly  home. 


95 


COMPENSATION 

There's  a  gleam  of  light  in  the  darkness 

As  the  door  is  open  thrown, 
And  children  and  wife  come  out  to  meet 

And  welcome  the  dear  one  home ; 
With  laughter  and  loving  words,  once  more 
They  lead  him  in  at  the  cabin  door. 

How  he  prizes  that  little  circle 
With  its  wealth  of  homely  joy  ; 

It  strengthens  heart  and  brain  and  hand 
For  another  day's  employ, 

No  sweeter  rest  in  the  world  is  known 

Than  that  in  the  miner's  humble  home. 

The  heart  is  full  of  thankfulness 

When  all  things  go  to  prove 
That  the  world,  though  full  of  labor, 

Contains  so  much  of  love  ; 
Like  the  rain  and  sun,  it  is  everywhere, 
And  all  things  living  can  have  their  share. 


96 


ULTIMA  THULE 

AS  we  climb  the  rugged  mountain 

And  a  moment  pause  to  rest, 
With  the  weariness  of  climbing 

And  the  sun's  fierce  heat  oppressed, 
Misty,  cool  and  purple  seeming 

Are  the  peaks  which  rise  beyond, 
With  the  snow  upon  them  gleaming 

Just  a  little  farther  on. 

Up  the  canon  bloom  wild  roses, 

In  rich,  fragrant  beauty  shown. 
Every  onward  step  discloses 

Some  fresh  loveliness  unknown. 
Yet  in  all  this  massed  completeness 

That  the  pleased  eyes  rest  upon, 
Those  we  covet  for  their  sweetness 

Are  a  little  farther  on. 

Thus  the  sculptor  with  new  treasure 

In  the  marble  block  unseen, 
And  the  poet  with  his  measure, 

And  the  artist  with  his  theme, 
Strive  with  patience  and  persistence 

Toward  the  summit  to  be  won, 
That  seems  ever  in  the  distance — 

Just  a  little  farther  on. 


97 


ULTIMA    THULE 

Ah,  the  wistful  eyes  must  slumber, 

While  the  busy  hands  have  rest, 
And  ambitions  without  number 

Sleep  within  a  pulseless  breast, 
Ere  the  veil  that  hides  fruition, 

With  its  haven  surely  won, 
Parts  before  our  waiting  vision, 

Just  a  little  further  on. 


98 


AT  TOMICHI 

YES,  this  is  the  spot  where  they  fought  for  the  claim, 

Those  miners,  determined  and  strong ; 
Up  the  steep  rock  side  of  the  canon  they  came, 

To  settle  the  right  and  the  wrong ; 
And  the  emblems  of  justice  shone  bright  in  the  sun — 
Of  stern  Western  justice — the  pistol  and  gun. 

Clear  the  mountain  tops  shone  ©n  the  pale  wintry  sky, 

And  the  snow  drifted  fleecy  and  cold  : 
It  is  naught  to  the  miner  what  season  is  by 

While  he  suffers  and  toils  after  gold, 
And  chases  the  phantom,  delusive  and  bright, 
Of  fortune  which  ever  recedes  from  his  sight. 

Stern  eyes  looking  up  and  stern  eyes  looking  down 
From  the  prospecting  site  they  both  claim  ; 

There's  "possession  or  death"  in  each  face,  set  and  brown, 
In  that  moment  before  the  shock  came. 

Then  a  flash,  an  explosion,  a  deep  stifled  groan, 

And  a  miner  had  gone  o'er  the  snowy  range,  home. 

Yes,  this  is  the  spot  where,  so  quiet  to-day, 

A  small  pretty  bird  has  her  home ; 
There  is  never  a  sign  of  that  dreadful  affray, 

And  the  bird  holds  possession  alone. 
She  has  no  fear  or  doubt  in  -her  innocent  breast, 
As  she  looks  at  us  brightly  and  broods  in  her  nest. 


99 


SOME  ONE'S  SERVANT  GIRL 

SHE  stood  there  leaning  wearily 

Against  the  window  frame  ; 
Her  face  was  patient,  sad,  and  sweet, 

Her  garments  coarse  and  plain  ; 
"  Who  is  she,  pray  ?"   I  asked  a  friend, 

The  red  lips  gave  a  curl, 
"  Really,  I  do  not  know  her  name ; 

She's  some  one's  servant  girl." 

Again,  I  saw  her  on  the  street 

With  burden  trudge  along; 
Her  face  was  sweet,  and  patient  still, 

Amid  the  jostling  throng, 
Slowly,  but  cheerfully,  she  moved, 

Guarding  with  watchful  care 
A  market-basket  much  too  large 

For  her  slight  hands  to  bear. 

A  man, — I'd  thought  a  gentleman — 

Went  pushing  rudely  by, 
Sweeping  the  basket  from  her  hands, 

But  turning  not  his  eye ; 
For  there  was  no  necessity, 

Amid  that  busy  whirl, 
For  him  to  be  a  gentleman — 

To  some  one's  servant  girl. 


100 


SOME   ONE  S  SERVANT   GIRL 

Ah,  well  it  is,  that  God  above 

Looks  in  upon  the  heart, 
And  never  judges  any  one 

By  just  the  outer  part ; 
For  if  the  soul  be  pure  and  good, 

He  will  not  mind  the  rest, 
Nor  question  what  the  garments  are 

In  which  the  form  is  dressed. 

And  many  a  man  and  woman  fair, 

By  fortune  reared  and  fed, 
Who  will  not  mingle  here  below 

With  those  who  earn  their  bread, 
When  they  have  passed  away  from  life, 

Beyond  the  gates  of  pearl, 
Will  meet  before  their  Father's  throne 

With  many  a  servant  girl. 


101 


ABSENCE 

"  I  haven't  the  time  to  write  to-day 
As  I  really  could  wish  to  do, 

But  read  between  the  lines  with  care ; 

Whatever  you  wish,  you  can  find  it  there. 
I  am  busy,  so  I  can  only  say 
I  am  well — write  soon — adieu  !  " 

'  Tis  so  hard  to  read  between  the  lines 

In  this  wearisome  world  of  ours, 
The  eyes  grow  dim  with  unshed  tears, 
The  heart  is  heavy  with  doubts  and  fears, 
And  we  cannot  see  to  read  at  times 
As  we  might  in  brighter  hours. 

Then  write  it  out  what  you  have  to  say 

To  mother,  or  sweetheart,  or  wife, 
Only  a  few  short  lines,  'tis  true, 
Not  much  labor  or  time  for  you, 
But  unto  the  loved  ones  far  away 
It  may  be  the  sunshine  of  life. 

Then  tell  them  how  often  and  lovingly 

You  think  of  the  bygone  times  ; 
Tell  them — if  far  from  them — you  miss 
The  morning  smile  and  the  evening  kiss, 
Nor  leave  them  to  leok  in  a  wistful  way 
For  kind  words  between  the  lines. 


IO2 


WHEN  I  MEAN  TO  MARRY 

NOT  BY  JOHN  G.  SAXE 

WHEN  do  I  mean  to  marry?   Well, 
If  you  would  really  like  to  hear, 

I  do  not  know  that  I  can  tell 

The  very  day,  or  month,  or  year. 

'Twill  be  when  I  a  man  have  met 
Who  of  ambition  has  no  lack, 

Who  ne'er  was  known  to  gamble  yet, 
Or  drive  fast  horses  on  the  track ; 

Who  never  comes  home  late  at  night 
From  drinking  with  the  men  in  town, 

And  cannot  get  the  latch  key  right, 

Because  the  house  stands  upside  down  ; 

Who  never  goes  into  a  store 

And  suits  himself  the  best  he  can, 

Then,  when  he's  traded  less  or  more, 

Says,  "  Have  it  charged  to  the  old  man." 

Now  when  I  meet  this  good,  true  man, 
Who's  not  ashamed  to  earn  his  bread, 

Who  early  in  his  life  began 

The  honest,  upright  road  to  tread  ; 

If  he  would  like  a  helping  hand 

Gladly  to  work  with  him  through  life, 

If  he  would  like  me  as  I  am, 
I'll  be  his  cheerful,  loving  wife. 


103 


NEVER  MIND 

I  have  a  few  words  for  my  friends — 

I  do  not  mean  the  rich  and  gay — 
And  you  who  are  thus  worldly  blest 

Don't  list  to  what  I  have  to  say. 
If  you  be  one  who  has  few  friends, 

To  whom  the  world  has  been  unkind, 
I  wish  to  whisper  in  your  year, 

Be  good  and  true,  and  never  mind. 

If  nature  has  not  given  you 

Beauty  of  feature,  form,  or  face  ; 
If  feet  and  hands  are  both  untaught, 

And  you  have  neither  wit  nor  grace ; 
If  you  are  plain  and  poorly  clad, 

And  little  worldly  favor  find, 
Keep  a  pure  heart  within  your  breast, 

Work  patiently,  and  never  mind. 

If  thoughts  too  beautiful  for  words 

Come  to  you  in  your  leisure  hours — 
Thoughts  that  you  never  can  express 

Brought  to  you  by  the  birds  and  flowers 
Although  the  world  may  never  know 

The  beauty  in  your  soul  confined, 
Do  all  the  good  which  you  can  do, 

Perform  your  part,  and  never  mind. 


104 


NEVER     MIND 

We  do  not  know  the  reason  why 

Earth  was  not  all  of  beauty  made, 
Nor  why  the  sunshine  bright  and  fair 

Is  ever  hid  by  storm  and  shade  ; 
We  only  know  that  so  it  is — 

That  so  it  was  at  first  designed  ; 
We'll  cheerful  and  contented  be, 

And  trust  in  God,  and  never  mind. 


MY  AUTOGRAPH 

MAY  God's  dear  love  go  with  you, 

Through  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 
To  intensify  your  happiness, 

And  soften  all  your  pain. 
I  can  wish  you  nothing  better, 

Than  this  refuge  which  shall  stand, 
"  The  shadow  of  a  mighty  rock 

Within  a  weary  land." 


106 


THERE'S  A  WAY 

IS  there  something  in  your  heart 
You  would  really  wish  to  do ; 

A  great  purpose  to  perform, 

Something  noble,  good  and  true  ? 

Though  the  way  seem  very  dark, 
Work  with  patience  day  by  day  ; 

If  you  have  a  will  at  heart — 

There's  a  way. 

There's  a  seed  within  the  ground, 
In  a  hard  and  gloomy  shell ; 

It  would  be  a  climbing  vine 
In  the  sunlight  it  would  dwell, 

And  with  purpose  firm  and  true 
Waits  in  patience  day  by  day ; 

By  and  by  the  shell  will  burst — 

There's  a  way. 

God  will  send  the  sun  and  rain 
To  the  heart  and  to  the  seed ; 

Waiting  will  not  be  in  vain, 
Patient  faith  is  what  we  need. 

There  are  many  things  to  do 
As  we  journey  day  by  day ; 

Each  perfected  work  will  prove 

There's  a  way. 


107 


WATER    LILIES 

WHERE  the  tree-tops  bend  and  meet, 
Casting  shadows  at  their  feet, 
Mottled  sunlight  falling  through, 
Kissed  by  zephyrs,  bathed  in  dew, 
Floating  idly  on  the  stream 
In  a  happy  summer  dream, 
Starry  eyes  and  breasts  of  snow, 
Perfumed  water  lilies  grow. 

All  untouched  by  worldly  art 
Are  the  lilies  like  the  heart ; 
Only  thriving  as  they  should, 
In  their  native  solitude  ; 
Growing  ever  purest  where 
Teaching  comes  from  earth  and  air ; 
Blessings  unperverted  keep 
Water  lilies  pure  and  sweet. 

Oh,  ye  blossoms  pale  and  fair ! 
On  my  bosom,  in  my  hair 
I  have  placed  ye  lovingly ; 
Praying  that  my  heart  may  be 
Something  like  your  breasts  of  snow, 
That  my  eyes  may  have  your  glow, 
That  my  soul  be  pure  and  fair 
As  ye  water  lilies  are. 


108 


THE  SUNNY  SIDE 

CRIMSON  and  amber,  purple  and  pink, 
Mingle  their  hues  where  the  sun  doth  sink, 

Earth  hath  a  glory  rare ! 
The  tints  on  the  waters  reflected  lie, 
The  trees  are  in  outline  against  the  sky, 

Beauty  is  everywhere ! 

Then  open  thine  eyes  that  thou  mayest  see 
Some  of  the  beauty  God  giveth  thee. 

List  to  the  song  of  the  happy  birds  ! 
List  to  the  murmur  of  kindly  words  ! — 

Voices  in  earth  and  air ; 
The  waters  babble  in  merry  glee, 
A  song  comes  up  from  the  humble  bee ; 

There  is  music  everywhere  ! 
Then  open  thine  ears  that  thou  mayest  hear, 
The  hymn  of  the  universe,  sweet  and  clear. 

Be  not  then  of  a  sorrowful  face, 
Cheerfully,  manfully,  take  thy  place, 

Whatever  ill  betide. 
Think  not  that  labor  is  all  that  be 
Under  the  heavens  in  store  for  thee, 

Look  on  the  sunny  side  ! 
Open  thine  heart  and  thou  shalt  share, 
Bountiful  blessings  everywhere  ; 
And  God,  who  sendeth  the  sun  and  rain, 
Will  see  that  thv  life  is  not  in  vain. 


109 


FRUITION  DAY 

HAVE  you  some  wish  within  your  heart, 
Some  steadfast,  prayerful,  sweet  desire, 

Some  aspiration  which  can  move 
And  thrill  you  with  its  hidden  fire  ? 

Hope  on,  poor  soul,  as  best  you  may, 

You  ne'er  will  see  fruition  day. 

Blooms  there  a  flower  of  sweet  perfume 
Which,  once  your  own  amid  the  strife, 

Would  give  you  strength,  and  with  its  bloom 
Would  sweeten  all  your  coming  life  ? 

Work  on,  hope  on,  yet  hear  me  say, 

You  ne'er  will  see  fruition  day. 

Rests  there  a  pearl  of  purest  light 

That  you  would  rescue  from  the  brine  ? 

Dive  often  down  to  ocean's  depth, 

Strive  for  it — would'st  thou  claim  it  thine  ? 

Work  manfully  as  best  you  may, 

You  ne'er  will  see  fruition  day. 

Grows  there  a  field  where  tender  green 
Gives  promise  of  fair  golden  maize  ? 

Rests  there  upon  those  tiny  shoots 
Rich  promise  for  the  coming  days  ? 

Trust  on,  hope  on — aye,  hope  and  pray 

You  ne'er  will  see  fruition  day. 


no 


FRUITION    DAY 

'Tis  well,  I  know,  that  we  should  trust, 
And  well  that  faith  and  hope  are  given  ; 

'Tis  blessed  that  they  cheer  us  on 

From  hour  to  hour,  this  side  of  heaven  ; 

But  ne'er,  except  in  heaven's  ray, 

Shall  we  behold  fruition  day. 

God  knoweth  best ;  we  can  but  say, 

"  Thy  will  be  done  !  Thy  will  be  done  !" 

And  hope  and  trust,  and  watch  and  pray, 
Until  this  earthly  course  is  run, 

Till  bursts  at  last  the  perfect  ray 

Of  glorious,  bright  fruition  day. 


in 


HOMELY   CHEER 

LAUGH  if  your  spirits  are  joyous, 

Sing  if  your  heart  should  be  gay ; 
God's  is  the  unknown  to-morrow, 

Ours  is  the  smiling  to-day. 
Speak,  if  your  thought  is  of  kindness, 

Leave  not  the  good  word  unsaid  ; 
Rich  you  shall  be  in  the  giving, 

Others  will  come  in  its  stead. 

Give  a  hand,  firmly  and  kindly, 

Help  whom  you  can  on  their  way, 
Hands  will  grow  strong  by  assisting, 

Yet  weak  if  inactive  they  lay. 
Work,  though  the  task  may  be  homely 

Do  with  a  will  what  you  can, 
Knowing  each  duty  perfected 

Assists  in  the  infinite  plan. 

Only  one  note  in  the  music 

Seems  but  a  trifle  at  best, 
Yet  if  'tis  lost  or  imperfect, 

Injury  falls  to  the  rest. 
Not  all  can  choose  on  their  journey 

Just  what  their  life-work  shall  be, 
Hut  humble,  or  high,  it  is  given 

By  One  who  is  wiser  than  we. 


I  12 


HOMELY     CHEER 

Therefore,  while  traveling  onward, 

Doing  what  good  we  may  do, 
Feeling  contented  and  thankful, 

Praying  for  strength  ever  new  ; 
We'll  laugh  if  our  spirits  are  joyous, 

Sing,  if  our  hearts  may  be  gay  ; 
God's  is  the  unknown  to-morrow, 

Ours  is  the  smiling  to-day. 


SUNSHINE 

SO  little  does  it  take  to  make  one  glad, 
A  loving  word,  and  however  sad 

The  world  appeared  when  it  was  spoken, 
The  heart  is  light  again,  the  spell  is  broken, 

Sunshine  can  vanish  never. 

So  little  does  it  take  to  make  one  sad, 
Some  thoughtless  act,  and  however  glad 

The  sun  had  shone,  it  fades  away, 

And  clouds  and  rain  drops  hold  their  sway, 

The  sun  has  set  forever. 

Since  trifles  then  make  up  the  sum 
Of  weal,  or  woe,  when  all  is  done — 

Why  sigh  for  wealth,  long  life  or  fame, 
If  we  can  only  sunshine  claim, 

Love's  kindly  sunshine  ever. 


114 


THE   FIREMAN 

HE  had  called,  and  in  the  parlor 

He  was  sitting,  Sunday  night, 
Without  'twas  very  cold  and  damp, 

Within  'twas  warm  and  bright ; 
He  sat  beside  his  sweetheart, 

(Don't  you  wish  you  knew  his  name  ?) 
And  vowed  he  did  not  care  a  fig, 

If  Monday  never  came. 

Oh,  her  mouth  was  redder,  sweeter 

Than  the  strawberries  we  buy, 
Which  are  sent  from  San  Francisco, 

And  this  time  of  year  are  high. 
She  wore  the  cutest  slippers, 

And  her  waist  was  trim  and  small — 
Just  the  prettiest  girl  in  Denver, 

And  I  think  that  says  it  all. 

He  was  thinking  of  the  comforts 

Of  a  cosv  wedded  life, 
And  had  wished  that  moment  in  his  heart 

That — someone  was  his  wife  ; 
(I  had  nearly  said  her  name  right  out, 

And  that  I  must  not  tell) — 
When,  worse  than  Gabriel's  dreaded  blast, 

There  clanged  the  fire-bell. 


THE    FIREMAN 

"To  go  or  not  to  go  "  was  now 

The  question,  do  you  see  ? 
He  knew  that  all  the  other  boys 

Were  out  as  well  as  he ; 
And  so  this  gallant  fireman 

He  did  his  duty  well — 
But  as  he  rushed  along  the  street 

He  muttered,  "  D — n  that  bell !" 


116 


TRIFLES 

ONLY  a  leaf,  which  carelessly 

A  strong  hand  broke  from  the  maple  tree — 
Aimlessly  broke,  and  cast  away 

To  die  in  the  dust,  one  summer  day. 

Only  a  violet,  simply  dressed 

With  a  drop  of  dew  on  her  purple  vest, 
Frail  and  sweet  in  her  dainty  suit, 

Crushed  to  death  by  a  passing  foot. 

Only  a  bird,  which  would  never  sing — 
A  bird  with  a  broken,  scarlet  wing — 

Over  whose  heart  was  an  ugly  spot 

Where  life  came  through,  from  a  careless  shot. 

Only  a  wistful  feeling  stirred 

In  the  heart  to  utter  a  loving  word ; 

Only  a  timid,  sweet  advance, 

Crushed  by  a  cold,  unfeeling  glance. 

Only  the  down  brushed  from  the  peach ; 

Only  a  jesting,  thoughtless  speech  ; 
Trifles  indeed,  but  weigh  them  well, 

For  their  power  for  misery  none  can  tell. 

Then,  oh,  to  be  careful  in  all  we  do — 
Wise  and  thoughtful,  and  kind  and  true ; 

Lest  some  evil  we  counted  a  trifle  may 

The  great,  good  works  of  our  lives  outweigh. 


117 


HOME 

OH,  after  wandering 

East  and  West, 
How  sweet  on  one's 

Home  bough  to  rest ! 
Go  view  the  world 

In  pleasant  weather, 
Then  take  what  comes 

At  home  together. 
And  is  it  rain, 

Or  is  it  shine, 
The  light  of  home 

Makes  it  divine. 


118 


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